


In the Hands of a Devil

by maqcy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arena, Bathing/Washing, Brainwashing, Conflict, Fantasy, Fear, Fights, Hurt, M/M, Mostly all implied, Not as bad all that, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Poor Kirwyn, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Restraints, Scars, Slavery, Speciesism, Swimming, War, indoctrination, nothing gory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-06-05 18:06:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6715633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maqcy/pseuds/maqcy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every Helveltii knew that the Islanders were monsters. There was nothing a Helveltii could do that would be worse than an Islander’s deeds, though Kirwyn can't imagine anything worse than what happened to him at the hands of his own people.</p><p>Jude, a powerful lord with the Devil's hands, is Kirwyn's enemy and his captor. He's strong enough to cause Kirwyn great harm. But he hasn't. Yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lupine Eyes and Spiced Bread

**Author's Note:**

> *This is an original work, belonging to me. If you want to use the characters please message me*
> 
> The warnings for violence and prostitution are implied, and there are mentions of past rape, so if you think this might trigger you, please be careful, I don't want to upset anyone! Hope you enjoy!

_Kirwyn_

 

He was being taken somewhere. One of Islanders had lifted him up over one shoulder and was moving steadily. Kirwyn’s skin was burnt and dusted with ash from the battle, thick under his nails and at the back of his throat and in his nose. Eyes that were now covered with cloth tied tightly enough that he couldn’t open his eyes behind it. They felt crusted closed, or sewn shut.

There were rough voices, sharp noises, calloused hands touching him and everything seemed overwhelmingly loud after all the silence. He was set down beside a fire on a stout bit of damp wood. The heat coming off the fire was tremendous and Kirwyn hunched over his knees towards it, cold to the chambers of his heart. He could smell meat roasting, the crackling of fat and flesh, and his mouth filled with saliva at the thought.

“Over here, milord.” Kirwyn went still, his head tilted back towards the voice. He felt a strange tension in the people around him, but perhaps it was only his own imaginings. His own tension.

A heavy presence stood just behind him but there was quiet. Trees and running water off to the right, he thought, open land around them. A camp. The smell of meat was making him nauseous, the smoke heavy, choking him as the wind blew the ashes towards him, burning his chest and jaw like the Islanders’ Devil hands. Even the land knew he didn’t belong here. Kirwyn struggled to hold himself upright.

“A gift, milord, from the Outpost Rulers.” Still, silence. “A warrior. A Helveltii.” Silence. “A slave, milord, for your convenience a-and pleasure.” The speaker sounded as if he were repeating someone else’ words. “To fight in the ring for you, if you’d like. If you have no interest in him, milord, I can arrange for him to be sold on your behalf. Helveltii are considered quite valuable.”

“Why should I care if the enemy is considered valuable?” A man said quietly. A challenge. The voice was dark. It held a heavy, almost weary power and the first speaker sounded nervous as he replied,

“Lord of Valeria said that he did not think you would take him,” The first man said, sounding young as he stumbled over his words, “but that Falkirk had seen him fight and said that he was good in the arena.” A heavy silence before the man added nervously, “Naturally, milord, it is entirely your decision. I did not mean to overstep.” The other man grunted in response.

“Stand him up. Take him to my tent.” Firm hands, more careful than they had been, pulled him up by the arms and Kirwyn suppressed a groan as his aching, burnt body was taken from the warmth and comfort of the fireside. He could barely stand.

At the tent entrance, Kirwyn was passed over to another man,

“That will do.” A gruff voice, close to his ear, commanded the soldiers. Kirwyn was too exhausted to flinch. With a brush of rough fabric, Kirwyn was brought into the Islander’s tent and lowered to kneel on the floor. He found it difficult to get to his feet but the man didn’t stop him when he tried. Kirwyn would not kneel before an Islander by choice.

Standing shakily, disoriented and weak, Kirwyn was aware of his own aching hunger, his own thirst, but also tensely aware that a man, worse than a stranger, was right there, could be watching him without Kirwyn knowing.

Kirwyn felt the lump of fear in his belly, like uncooked dough, expand and grow heavier. He heard the man move and tensed up further.

The soldiers had named the man as a lord. A warrior, then, or the son of one. Someone significant, to be receiving gifts of slaves from far away Rulers. Slave. He, a slave. Kirwyn’s father had owned a slave, an orphan boy, and he’s treated the child kindly, like a favoured servant. Kirwyn held no illusions that he would be treated as well. Not by one of the Islanders. Men who didn’t deserve to be called men because of their lack of humanity. They mutilated dead bodies on the fields and pillaged villages like cruel gods, grinning and laughing. Every Helveltii knew that the Islanders were monsters. There was nothing a Helveltii could do that would be worse than an Islander’s deeds.

Kirwyn was proud that he didn’t make a noise when the man’s burning skin suddenly brushed against his bound hands but he started violently and pulled away, his heart pounding like a fleeing man’s boots. This lord had Devil’s hands; his touch hot and ashy, as only the most powerful Islanders, and Kirwyn could feel the heat left behind on his skin. Heavens help him.

Kirwyn heard the man step up behind him and he screwed his bound hands into fists to wait for the pain. The man’s hand closed tightly around Kirwyn’s wrist but there was fabric between his skin and Kirwyn’s, the man’s sleeve, perhaps. What did it matter to him if Kirwyn got his wrist burnt?

Nevertheless, the man didn’t touch Kirwyn directly again as he led the Helveltii a short way and sat him with his back pressed up against something hand and wooden. A solid structure; a bed perhaps, or a supporting shaft of the tent. Kirwyn took a shaky breath. He could feel the Islander near him as he was secured before hot hands ghosted over the back of his head and the blindfold came away.

Kirwyn blinked and stared like an owl, trying to make something out in the darkness with the few flickering candles dim and slippery. Kirwyn reasoned that it must be night time, with the depth of the darkness in the tent, and because it hadn’t been cold enough to merit lighting a fire in the day.

There; eyes. The Islander turned his head and Kirwyn could make out his captor’s profile. Sharp angles and harsh lines, his mouth thin and his brows dark and set. His hood was inky black and it shivered with feathers as he folded it down and slid out of his coat, made of coarse brown leather fitted to his form. He draped it over a chair like he was removing a second skin and sat down, facing Kirwyn.

“What’s your name, Helveltii?” Kirwyn lifted his chin to meet the man’s fierce, lupine eyes,

“Kirwyn, son of Darrick.” Kirwyn lowered his head slightly, “Master.” He had to spit the word out,

“I am Jude, Lord of Denarex, soldier under King Andras. And you will call me Jude, when we are alone.” Kirwyn narrowed his eyes at the man, Jude, but he held his tongue. Jude stood to move past where Kirwyn was tied, the wooden shaft one of two central supports of the tent, and Kirwyn stiffened, looking back over his shoulder.

Jude was turned away from him, taking something from a leather sack. He came back towards Kirwyn and crouched down, settling down on one knee to tear the bit of bread in his hand, offering it to Kirwyn. The man’s Devil’s hands were so dark Kirwyn couldn’t tell where the dark ended and Jude’ arm started. He opened his mouth hesitantly, fully aware that Jude had most likely drugged it. It wasn’t as if he had the strength to prevent Jude forcing him to take it.

The cheese was sweet and the bread, soft and flecked with spice unlike any Kirwyn had tasted before. Jude fed him carefully, letting Kirwyn take his time. The wine was sour but it whet his throat and Kirwyn began to feel a little stronger.

“You ought to take a bath.” Jude said. A muscle twitched at Kirwyn's jaw and Jude added, “But not tonight.” Kirwyn gave a small nod. “Go to sleep, Kirwyn, I will speak with you in the morning.”

 

When Kirwyn woke, it was still dark and he was alone in the tent. He was shivering uncontrollably, his jerky breaths misting in the chilled air. Kirwyn felt like it should be light, but it wasn’t. He had a sudden fear that he wouldn’t see the sun again. Kirwyn took a shaky breath, drawing freezing air deep into his lungs before exhaling until his lungs were empty and crushed. Then he breathed in again, filling his lungs with cuttingly cold air just to prove to himself that the darkness wasn’t tight around him, instead it was big and empty and cold.

Jude came into the tent with a scowl on his face, glancing down at Kirwyn with something heavier than simple dislike in his expression. Kirwyn tried to stop shaking but the cold was painful and he just twitched away from where Jude was standing. Kirwyn saw Jude release a breath and it clouded in the air. Jude's lips and skin were flushed with pink heat from some exertions outside but his hands were as densely black as they had been the night before. When Jude took a step towards him as if to lift him from the floor, Kirwyn flinched away and Jude drew up short, considering him. Kirwyn watched warily as Jude went to his wooden trunk, clearing the scattering of papers, his pen and ink from the top before opening it up to draw out a pair of pale grey leather gloves; an odd contrast next to his ashy skin.

His hands covered, Jude came over to untie Kirwyn’s ropes and carried him, much to Kirwyn's displeasure, to the far side of the tent. He supported Kirwyn's weight with apparent ease, though his face was eerily blank and he avoided Kirwyn's gaze, setting Kirwyn down on his furs before sending a soldier away to fetch them breakfast. Jude's furs were blissfully warm and, against his will, Kirwyn began to slip into an uneasy sleep.

A slight movement woke Kirwyn, the tickle of fur under his nose and he opened his eyes to find Jude sat beside him. He was holding a plate of cold meat, bread and cheese and a mug of something steaming and Kirwyn watched Jude pull off the gloves, tossing them aside with distaste before starting to eat. Kirwyn shifted position slightly and Jude’s eyes snapped over to him with a piece of pink meat held in his greasy fingers. Kirwyn’s breath caught and, sorely aware of the tight cord pinning his wrists back, he inched away. Jude’s hand shot out to catch Kirwyn’s shirt at the neck, two fingers hooked into the strings lacing up the front, halting him.

Kirwyn took an unsteady breath as Jude pinched a scrap of ham between the bread and held it above the metal plate for a second. The hand at Kirwyn's throat tugged upwards and Kirwyn jerked his chin up and back, twisting to the side to avoid Jude's touch. He glared,

“Come on, sit up.” Jude said and Kirwyn did, with difficulty. He brought his hips around under him to sit cross legged, his head still held to the side, tendon taut at his throat and his jaw hard and square. Jude released Kirwyn's shirt and, after a moment, Kirwyn carefully accepted the food from Jude’s fingers. The Islander fed Kirwyn every second mouthful until the plate was clear, putting it aside to help Kirwyn drink. Some of the warm ale spilled down the side of Kirwyn’s mouth and Jude went to wipe it away with his thumb but Kirwyn flinched back, violently, and Jude dropped his hand, throwing back the last of the ale before standing. Kirwyn felt Jude studying him and he drew his shoulders back and glared at the tent wall, “Get up, Kirwyn.” Jude said, his tone tight.

Kirwyn took Jude’s tone for irritation and staggered to his feet, keeping his eyes on the patterned floor. The man’s face was almost exactly level with his own and there was no more than a foot between them. Jude turned away after a second and moved for the tent flap, his long, black coat trailing after him as if Jude’s smooth movement had surprised his shadow.

“Do you want to stay here all day?” Jude said, his expression unreadable. Kirwyn came swiftly over to stand at his side, Jude's sudden exclamation of, “Why won’t you look at me?” making him start. He tried to keep the aggravation off his face as he brought his head up. Biting back a more sarcastic answer he said,

“I thought you didn’t want me to, sir.”

“You are allowed to look where you want to look when we are alone, Kirwyn, I would not reprimand you.” Kirwyn ducked his head again and didn’t reply. Jude sighed, seeming exasperated, though by what, Kirwyn didn't know and he flinched. Kirwyn couldn’t make himself look at the Islander. His uneasiness grew,

“Stay close, Kirwyn.” Jude said, stepping out of the tent and into the grey morning. Kirwyn followed a step behind him.


	2. Boots and a Blank Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude is unaware of the fear he elicits in Kirwyn until it's too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the brevity but hope you enjoy!

_Kirwyn_

 

Kirwyn came jerkily awake when Jude nudged him with the toe of his boot, standing over him with an inscrutable expression. Kirwyn could feel all the ruts in the earth that poked through the thin patchwork of rugs that covered the floor of the tent, dusky greens and reds that were thin and tread-worn. Under Jude’s heavy, blank gaze, Kirwyn went to push himself up only to find his arms still pinned behind him.

“Up, Kirwyn, come on.” Kirwyn got his tired legs under him and came unsteadily to his feet. They’d worked him hard in the forest earlier that day, fetching and carrying. They’d watched him hard as well, because he was new and a fighter. Kirwyn was left alone by the other slaves who only watched him warily from a distance. All the eyes on him made him constantly ill at ease.

Kirwyn struggled to keep down the food Jude was giving him. His stomach was tight and sore and partly, it was the unfamiliarity of the food. The soft meat was red and greasy and just the smell of it was enough to turn Kirwyn’s stomach. There wasn’t much in the way of plant stuff and the bread was smothered in a thick layer of some sort of brownish paste that tasted like pulverised wood chippings. Kirwyn was also wary of Jude and what the Islander might later do and of the other soldiers and what they might do now.

“Ale! Pass the ale, man!” Kirwyn was sat under the table, at Jude’s feet, invisible to the men above. “Pull him up, will you milord? I’d like to see him before he’s sent into the ring.” Kirwyn shuddered as someone banged their flask down on the table and the vibrations went straight to his spine. He curled into himself,

“He might not go into the ring.” Kirwyn was knocked back against Jude’s shins with a kick to the ribs from the man opposite,

“Ah! Sorry, milord, didn’t mean to kick him. Not used to having something there.” If Jude replied, Kirwyn didn’t hear it as men further up the table had begun to sing raucously. Kirwyn turned towards the noise and in the dim light under the table he saw a flash of eyes looking back at him before they were lost in the shifting forest of legs and boots.

Kirwyn adjusted his position slightly to ease his aching muscles, feeling his shoulder blade bump Jude’s knee. Kirwyn leant away from the contact, folding forwards to rest his head onto his knees before straightening as far as the low table would allow him to.

A thump above was accompanied by an exclamation of fury,

“That’s not right! Damn you, you sneaky bastard! I was on for a straight run.” Another thump followed by the clatter of coins, “I’m done, Alf and don’t expect me to play you again.”

“He won fair-”

“Doesn’t damn well feel fair-”

“Don’t be a bad loser-”

“I’m not! I paid him, didn’t I?” Jude’s hand came down to rest on the edge of the bench, holding a scrap of something. Kirwyn, feeling as shamed as he had the first time, took the bit of meat in his mouth and swallowed it like it was unpleasant, though he didn’t keep it on his tongue long enough to tell.

“Come on milord, bring him up! I haven’t seen a Helveltii in months.”

“Alright, alright.” Kirwyn heard Jude relent and the man leant back to look at him, crouched under the table. It had felt degrading before, being put at Jude’s feet but now Kirwyn was reluctant to come out.

He did, though. Jude’s fingers gripped the back of his thin shift without touching his skin and Kirwyn met the men’s curious gazes with glares. He found it strange to see the voices, which over the last couple of hours had become familiar, spewing from stranger’s faces.

“Decent-enough looking, I suppose, if you like the fiery-headed barbarian type.” The one opposite said, eyeing Kirwyn in a way that made his heart shudder. Jude dragged Kirwyn up the last couple of inches before sitting him down on the bench and continuing eating.

“His hair looks like a girl's.” Another man barked a laugh and Kirwyn coloured. Jude seem to be ignoring them, intent on chewing his bread. Kirwyn’s gaze slid from the Islander, his hand still tangled in the back of Kirwyn’s shirt, to Jude’s plate. Jude took a thick bit of paste-covered bread and dragged it around his plate to soak up the meat juices before taking a bite, picking up every last drop of liquid left on his plate and every last morsel of food, like it was the last meal he would get for a week.

“Eats like someone starved, doesn’t he?” One of the men laughed and Kirwyn glanced up, only to duck his head again when he realised they were talking to him. A man off the left cooed,

“He’s shy as a virgin maiden.” Kirwyn felt his cheeks flood with heat again and hated it. A lewd, mumbled comment set the men laughing raucously and Kirwyn scowled, itching to curl his arms around his stomach. To be allowed even the illusion of being able to protect himself. Jude’s fingers climbed up his neck and into his braided hair and Kirwyn recoiled, glancing from the men, their attentions thankfully elsewhere, to Jude. Kirwyn didn’t have the strength to cope with an advance from Jude, not now, not here and his stomach clenched with sickness at the touch. The man opposite was still looking at him, albeit in glances and Kirwyn hunched his shoulders and tried to detach himself from all of it, all of them.

“…you’ll be renting him out, then milord?” Across the table, the man was leaning forwards to talk to Jude with a hungry look in his eyes. Involuntarily, Kirwyn found his eyes on Jude’s face, trying to draw some bit of information from the man’s unfathomable expression,

“We’ll see.” Jude shrugged before tipping the last of the ale down his throat, like the matter was nothing to him.

 

Jude kept his hand resting on Kirwyn’s shoulder through the rest of the evening and the short walk back to the tent and Kirwyn hated every second of it. Hated the gentle but constant pressure through the fabric of his shift, as if there were no reason why Jude shouldn’t put his hands on him. Kirwyn hated that he couldn’t shrug the man off and punch him across his thin, hard mouth because of the goddamn ropes at his wrists rubbing his skin raw.

The moment they passed into the tent, Jude released him and Kirwyn levelled a cold glare at him. Kirwyn watched warily as Jude shrugged off his coat and then his shirt, moving to sit on his furs to untie his boots. His weapons belt, laid across his hips, was unbuckled and he dropped beside his boots before his head came up and Jude looked over at Kirwyn.

“Kirwyn, come over here.” Partly undressed, the man cast an impressive figure in the dim light, impressive and threatening. Kirwyn didn’t move. He felt ill. He saw Jude blink slowly, directing a heavy stare at him. It was a look that could have held many meanings but Kirwyn was inclined to have the worst of them come to mind. He told himself this was nothing new, that the Islanders could surely not be so much worse. Heavens, he struggled to imagine worse.

Kirwyn came reluctantly towards him, each step feeling like he was walking towards the edge of a cliff and the closer he got, the harder it was to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He wouldn’t, couldn’t look at the Islander. That blank face, the eyes he’d first seen glinting in the dark like a wild animal’s, heavy, so that Kirwyn could feel the weight behind them, but sharp as the man’s knife. Barely a foot away from Jude, Kirwyn stood still and braced himself.

Unconcerned, Jude slid smoothly under the furs, laid out on his back and looking up at Kirwyn expectantly. Kirwyn floundered, the uncertainty tearing at him, until Jude nodded for him to sit down. With a shiver that sent goose bumps rippling down his arms, Kirwyn wearily lowered himself down on the very edge of Jude’s furs, keeping his boots on the carpet. Jude came forward and Kirwyn was so startled when Jude moved to unfasten his boot that Kirwyn pulled his foot from the Islander’s grip, only to sheepishly return it a moment later under Jude’s impatient stare. Once he’d accepted that Jude simply didn’t want Kirwyn’s filthy boots in his bed, Kirwyn’s attention shifted to the Islander’s Devil hands’ and once it had, he couldn’t take his eyes off the shadowy flesh. Though barely visible in the dark, Kirwyn felt the man’s touches through his boots as they were pulled off at the heel and dreaded the feel of those hands on his skin with the temperature of heated irons and the repulsion borne of probing fingers.

Kirwyn’s boots set aside, he watched as Jude reclined and slipped back beneath the rich animal pelts, lying on his side, facing Kirwyn. Rather less gracefully, Kirwyn manoeuvred himself so that he was cocooned at Jude’s side,

“You’re shaking.” Kirwyn’s shivering had abated somewhat but not entirely. “Kirwyn.” Jude’s voice was steady and even, unlike how Kirwyn’s thought his would be if he spoke, “Kirwyn.” The furs shifted and he knew Jude was moving. Tensed up. He just- HOW- why was it his- MUCH- was Jude going to- LONGER- why hadn’t he- COULD- what did he- HE- was it going to be- ENDURE- what could he- what if- THIS-

“Kirwyn.” Jude’s voice; firm, hard and sharp. His rough accent placing emphasis on the first syllable,

“Yes, sir?” Kirwyn found himself breathless and he answered on impulse. Jude sighed.

“I don’t enjoy being called ‘sir’, Kirwyn. It’s Jude.” The man sounded vaguely irritated, though Kirwyn wasn’t looking at the Islander so he couldn’t be sure,

“Yes. Jude.”

“Good.” A heavy pause, “Go to sleep, Kirwyn.” The same words as the other night. They felt like reassurance, though Kirwyn knew they were just a direction.

It fell quiet between them, Jude’s breathing was as steady as his voice had been. Kirwyn didn’t remember falling asleep but he must have done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it continues...
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated!


	3. Scars and Sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude sees Kirwyn's past and Falkirk offers his services.

_Jude_

 

Jude was unusually unsure of himself,

“Kirwyn?” Kirwyn’s reply was an incoherent mumble. Jude tried again, firmer this time, “Kirwyn.” There was no response. Dawn light was bleeding in and Jude could just make out the indistinct outline of Kirwyn lying on his side, turned away from Jude and shifting uncomfortably, his pinned arms flexing and straining.

“Stop.” Kirwyn; clear, abrupt and pained. Tight, trembling shoulders dipped down through Kirwyn’s neck to his jaw, rough and shadowed, the delicate skin under his eyes stained the colour of spilt wine - a physical manifestation of his exhaustion. Jude came forwards slightly to catch Kirwyn’s features in the light; only the parallel lines of tension at his jaw and the movement behind his eyes gave away the fact that Kirwyn wasn’t sleeping easily. That and the quivering.

Kirwyn shuddered suddenly. Bucking violently, he threw a kick that Jude barely avoided before falling entirely motionless. Jude tried to calm his husky breathing, watching the other man.

A whimper and Kirwyn curled in on himself.

Again, “Stop,” only his voice was rougher than before. A twisted convulsion of the chest and neck and Kirwyn released a gut-wrenching cry of physical injury that warped into a stream of hollow shouts.

Jude, taking Kirwyn by the shoulders, shook the copper-haired man hard,

“Kirwyn!”

“Milord?” Anxious, half-asleep soldiers called him from outside in response to the shouts, “Milord! Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” Jude’s tone was hard and flat, “It’s fine. Stand down.” The men outside sounded relieved in their muffled responses,

“Very good, milord.”

“Kirwyn?” Jude said, quieter, though his tone was no less detached, “Are you awake?” Kirwyn’s response was swift,

“Yes, sir. Awake, sir. I-I'm sorry, sir." Kirwyn’s voice was low and uneven.

"Not 'sir'. Jude."

"Jude." Kirwyn repeated the man’s name numbly, using the same intonation as if he had said ‘sir’. Jude found that his hand was still resting on Kirwyn’s shoulder. The Helveltii was on his side, facing away from Jude, his ribs expanding and contracting jerkily under his shirt.

Jude removed his hand before rising unsteadily, stepping over Kirwyn to pick up his weapons belt and strap it around his hips. He turned,

“Sir-” Jude caught the unhappy set of Kirwyn’s features and gave the man his attention, “I afraid- I fear- I’m not feeling well.” Jude took a breath, tucking the strap of his belt into the buckle before bending down to hook his arms under Kirwyn’s shoulders, heaving the tall man to his feet. Kirwyn swayed a moment, his jaw clamped shut. Jude frowned,

“Outside, Kirwyn.” He said in a voice that permitted no negotiation. Kirwyn’s expression was set as he allowed Jude to help him outside, only to fall to his knees and noisily throw up the contents of his stomach.

 

The guard saw Lord of Denarex run a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, dark as peat and kept longer than was the norm. His chest was bare and the guard forced himself to turn his head slightly away, raising his eyebrow at the other guard. Milord was good-looking in the manner of an untamed animal; the sense of cold violence and restless power was as alluring as it was horrifying.

The other guard didn’t look as if he’d seen, focused ahead with a blank expression, but when milord glanced down at his Helveltii, the guard saw his partner lower his lid in a slow wink. They both appreciated the display of taunt, defined muscle and the jut of the man’s hipbones above his low-riding trousers. The guard shuddered and pulled his gaze away as milord lifted his gaze from his new slave. The Helveltii warrior wasn’t bad looking, either, the guard thought, though too lean all in all. He wondered if milord was using the Helveltii. Maybe that was why the slave was chucking his guts up with milord standing over him, shirtless and unreadable as ever.

 

Jude sensed the guard was eyeing him and he looked up from Kirwyn to see the guard turn away. There was a flush at his neck and cheeks that gave him away though and as soon as Kirwyn was done, Jude took the Helveltii and retreated inside the tent. Kirwyn’s expression was no longer of pained disorientation, instead his mouth was lifted in a small smirk,

“What?” Jude snapped. Kirwyn’s smirk became brittle around the edges but he kept it there and turned away, bringing up his shoulder to wipe away the mess at the corners of his lips. Jude scowled, regarding his filthy shirt with disgust, “Wash time.” He announced, swinging his coat around his bare shoulders before gathering a couple of woollen towels and an armful of spare clothes from the chest, ignoring the stab of smugness he felt at Kirwyn’s stricken look. “Come.” He ordered as he stalked out of the tent and, after a moment, he heard Kirwyn following. He handed the clothes and towels to a guard before directing the other, by lucky coincidence it was the one who’d blushed, to clear up Kirwyn’s mess.

As he walked, Jude found that Kirwyn tended to hang back behind him instead of coming alongside.

Jude saw Kirwyn watching him through the matted locks of his unnaturally red hair, coppery-brown creeping in at his scalp. Kirwyn’s eyes went glassy for a moment, fixed on the knife at Jude’s belt and Jude said, sharply,

“Kirwyn.” Kirwyn eyes refocused and he said,

“Yes? Sir?” with his voice barely above a breath. Jude pulled off his coat and came up behind Kirwyn, and, taking care not to burn Kirwyn with his hands, he quickly untied the cord at Kirwyn’s wrists, though the knot was stiff and tight. In his peripheral, Jude saw the guard take a step closer, watching Kirwyn edgily when the rope came loose and the Helveltii gritted his teeth with a groan as he brought his arms round, moving them gingerly.

Jude left Kirwyn alone, nodding once at the guard before turning his back and sliding into the black lake, descending into the icy water before striking out for the centre of the lake, his jaw-line length hair slicked back against his skull. He could see Kirwyn stood at the water’s edge,

“Kirwyn! Get in the water!” His call echoed across the lake and Jude regretted it, his voice sounding too sharp and hard, even to his own ears. He swam back to the shore line, rising up out of the shallows to see Kirwyn’s hands shaking, his pale fingers fumbling to untie the string at his waist, pulling his trousers away with mechanical efficiency.

Jude kept his eyes on Kirwyn’s face as he came over. Kirwyn’s fingers were curled around the rough edges of his shirt, the sleeves slightly bloodied from the abrasions at his wrists and Jude, his own hands steaming, took the bottom of Kirwyn’s shirt and tugged lightly upwards. Kirwyn was silent, refusing to release his grip whilst avoiding Jude’s gaze. There was something dark and pained in Kirwyn’s hooded eyes that prevented Jude from thinking that the Helveltii’s actions was simple disobedience.

"Let go, Kirwyn.” Jude tried to make his voice quietly assertive but not forceful and, reluctantly, Kirwyn’s fingers uncurled. Jude caught Kirwyn’s wince as his Devil’s hand brushed against Kirwyn’s skin and Jude took care as he peeled away the Helveltii’s shirt, exposing the marks underneath.

Jude saw the thin but numerous marks scattered across Kirwyn’s chest and kept his expression carefully blank, inwardly seething. He glanced up at the guard’s sharp intake of breath and slowly, seeing the anxious tension knotted in Kirwyn’s frame, Jude moved around to Kirwyn’s back. The copper twist of Kirwyn’s braid split his back, following the valley of his spine between the trembling twin peaks of his shoulder blades, but it didn’t hide the scars. Some with livid, puckered lips, others just thin, pale lines like tree branches in winter. Jude’s own back tingled and his hands flared with a momentary lack of control before he forcefully contained his anger.

“Heavens, Kirwyn.” The shakiness in his voice unnerved him and he tried to steady himself, “Do they pain you?” Kirwyn shook his head,

“Not now.” He murmured and then, seeming ill at ease, Jude watched him move away towards the water’s edge. He saw the pain and pride intermingled in the set of the man’s stiff shoulders, the determination that strengthened his body cut down by fear and yet the man was still there, wasn’t he? Mostly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter typed up after this, hope you're enjoying so far! Comments and kudos appreciated!


	4. Not Broken, But Tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude unintentionally terrorizes Kirwyn but manages to amend things somewhat.

_Jude_

 

They returned to Jude’s tent in silence. The guard watched Kirwyn like a cat and Kirwyn seemed to be taking care not to make any sudden movements, walking serenely just behind Jude. As Jude moved to enter the tent, the guard seemed about to express his concern about the lack of restraints on the Helveltii but he stayed silent.

Jude watched Kirwyn tug his fingers through his hair to free it from its braids, leaving it to fall freely down his back and around the curve of his shoulders.

“Why have you let it down?” Jude asked with a slight frown. Kirwyn wouldn’t meet his eye as he lifted his shoulders,

“No reason.” He replied. Jude raised an eyebrow. He shrugged and rubbed a hand across his forehead, thinking about the fight that night. The tent felt too enclosed tonight and he wanted to be a part of the crowd.

“Hands behind your back.” He ordered, wincing as Kirwyn’s head whipped around to give him a wide-eyed stare, taking a wary step backwards,

“No.” His voice was firm where his actions were shaky and uncertain. Jude took a breath,

“Kirwyn.” He said simply, meeting the other man’s eyes steadily. Kirwyn shook his head,

“No.” A muscle twitched at Jude’s jaw as he ran a heavy hand through his hair and Kirwyn sucked in his breath sharply, flinching violently. The tenuous strength he had gathered broke down in a rush of stumbled words, “I can’t- I’m sorry-” Jude stared at him,

“Calm yourself, Kirwyn.” Jude could see the man trying to, drawing long breaths in and out of his lungs, bringing his fists together in front of him in an effort to stop them visibly shaking, “What did I do?”

“N-Nothing sir.” Jude sighed, lowering himself to sit on his clothes chest, only to see Kirwyn’s shoulders stiffen once again. The man was constantly on guard, rigid with tension. It made Jude tired just to look at him.

“Kirwyn.” Jude tried to make his voice gentle, non-threatening, looking up at the tall man from his seated position, “Tell me honestly what I have done to unnerve you. I want to know.” Kirwyn settled a little as his movements became less frantic,

“I irritated you.” He said, bringing his finger up to touch his jawline, “you twitched here.”

“I see.” Jude said, resting his forehead on his palms for a moment. The light in the tent was dimming. The contests would be starting shortly. “I was planning on going to the ring, tonight, Kirwyn, and if you are to come with me, you must be bound. Those are the rules. And I’m not leaving you here alone.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t trust you.” Kirwyn met Jude’s gaze,

“It’s mutual.” Jude’s mouth compressed into a hard line,

“Just do as you’re told, Kirwyn.” Kirwyn scowled,

“Or what?” Jude gave him a stony look and Kirwyn flinched back a little, though the scared sort of fury didn’t leave his face, “What will you do to me? Beat me? I’ve had bones broken by men’s boots. Whip me? Carve your name into my skin? What is it that the Islanders do that is so much more awful?”

“Kirwyn.” Jude’s tone was stiff. He felt ill. “Stop.” To his surprise, the man did. He looked not broken, but tired. Heavens, the man looked exhausted. “Don’t do this Kirwyn.” Kirwyn looked pained,

“I don’t _enjoy_ angering you,” he said stiffly. Jude took a reluctant step towards him. Kirwyn took a step back. Jude tensed, lunging forwards just as Kirwyn scrabbled away, twisting around frantically as he searched for a way out. There was none. The door was guarded by two of Jude’s many fast, fit and disciplined soldiers and the thick canvas sides of the circular tent were pinned down, tight to the ground. Jude came after him and Kirwyn lashed out desperately. Jude twisted aside fluidly, going to grab Kirwyn’s shirt but the man threw his elbow out and Jude backed up to avoid it. He attacked again immediately, aiming for Kirwyn’s waist as he brought Kirwyn to the floor. Kirwyn thrashed at him from the ground with a strangled cry but Jude, efficient and indifferent, took the man by the shoulder and flipped him over, grabbing the Helveltii’s wrists through the man’s sleeves and pinning him there with a knee pressing down on Kirwyn’s spine. Kirwyn bucked desperately, his breathing ragged and his muffled curses choked and terrified.

When Kirwyn’s wrists were tied, Jude gripped the man’s arm and dragged him upright. Kirwyn didn’t resist. His chest was heaving with exertion and he was swaying slightly, a dull expression on his face. He looked shell-shocked and beaten down, devoid of any resistance in a way that made Jude nauseous to think about. It hadn’t taken much on his part to subdue the man and the way Kirwyn was, it didn’t look like it would take much more until he broke entirely.

Jude felt weighed down as he led Kirwyn over to the door, though the Helveltii didn’t resist, trailing at Jude’s side as if he’d been drugged.

One of the guards opened his mouth to greet him, saw the dark look on milord’s face and closed it again.

Jude felt the sick feeling in his belly settle in to stay as he took Kirwyn through the buzzing camp. There were soldiers everywhere, loud and staggering. These were his men and he had no reason to fear them but, to an outsider, to Kirwyn, they were intimidating; hell they were meant to be. They were killers, fighters, as he was and Kirwyn too, a good one at that if Falkirk was to be believed, but his soldiers were the ones with drink in their veins and swords at their sides and Kirwyn was restrained, unarmed. Jude pushed the thoughts from his mind. Kirwyn was his and no one would dare raise a hand against him whilst he was under Jude’s protection.

“Lord of Denarex,” Arson, Lord of Valentia, came out of the crowd to greet him warmly, “Jude, my friend, come and sit with us tonight.” Jude nodded readily enough and Arson looked surprised, “Good! Good, it isn’t often you grace us with your presence.” As his tone was teasing, Jude dredged up a fatigued smile and followed the lord up the wooden steps to the higher seats in the small arena, build by the men, for the men. “I hear there is to be a mighty barbarian warrior fighting tonight,” Arson said, smiling, as he sat down on the narrow benches. Jude sat down beside him, bringing Kirwyn down to kneel in front of him but as the walkways were narrow, Kirwyn ended up between Jude’s knees with his shoulders touching the insides of Jude’s legs. Arson smirked, “Have you taken a liking to him, then?” Jude glanced at the man but didn’t answer and, used to Jude’s reticence, Arson turned back to face the front untroubled, looking down the steep, jutting seating, like teeth leading to a throat, or steps to a tomb,

“Jude?” Arson was watching him, his brows furrowed slightly, “Are you ill? You seem pale, absent.” Jude didn’t attempt a smile, just nodded wearily,

“Scattered thoughts.” He said and Arson nodded, a sympathetic smile on his lips,

“Thinking of home?” Arson asked, his own eyes becoming distant, “Valentia’s never far from my thoughts these days.”

Jude agreed quietly, thinking of the grounds of his family’s home in Denarex; riding across the wind-battered moors and jumping the hill-side springs with his brother. Arson laid a hand on Jude’s arm, his expression uncharacteristically solemn,

“I think the battle brewing at Lindale will be the deciding one. And we outnumber them five to one.” Jude nodded. He felt Kirwyn’s tension and his mouth tightened at the corners,

“This war’s gone on far too long.” He said.

Jude only realised his hand had been resting on the pommel of his sword when a man sat down next to him and his furs brushed Jude’s knuckles. The man was Annax, Lord of Caledon and the two men exchanged nods and nothing more.

The soldiers’ idle chatter turned to loud exclamations of approval as the gates opened and the entertainment began with two slave boys, acrobats, tumbling and springing across the sand to the shouts and cheers of the audience and then they left. The first fight of the evening was between a barbarian carrying an axe as thick as his thigh, the metal head spanning as wide as an oxen’s horns, and a captured enemy of the north, his face still painted the faded blue of their characteristic war paint, armed with only a short sword and battered round shield.

The northerner was bound for defeat from the start but he fought nobly and Jude lost himself in the fight, his voice rising and falling with the rough roar of the small crowd. Jude settled back, blood pumping as the barbarian put his fallen opponent’s sword in the dying man’s hand, in honour of his bravery, meeting with the soldiers’ cries of approval.

As the barbarian revelled in his victory, Jude felt Kirwyn shift slightly between his knees, bringing him back to the moment. Though the arena was thick and tight with men and Jude was flushed with heat, the night was cold and Kirwyn was shivering. Jude slid out of his coat, Arson shouting his encouragement to the next pair of fighters coming into the arena, and draped it around Kirwyn’s curved shoulders. The man flinched, his head jerking around to look at Jude over his shoulder before he turned back to the front, shoulders sloping.

For the remainder of the evening, Jude couldn’t focus his attention on the arena; Kirwyn’s every movement, however slight, distracted him, and he found himself tiring of the crowd’s rumble, impatient for the night to end. He began to stand and Arson nudged him in the ribs with his elbow,

“You seem eager to slip away,” he smirked, raising his eyebrows at the Helveltii on the rough wood at Jude’s feet. Kirwyn seemed to shrink further into himself and Jude shrugged at Arson,

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to bid you good night, Arson. It’s been a pleasant evening.” Arson protested, still smirking, but Jude guided Kirwyn to stand, catching his coat as it slid off the man’s shoulders. Carefully avoiding touching the Helveltti’s bare skin, Jude led him past Annax, Lord of Caledon, with his permanent expression of mild distaste, and the other warrior Lords, down and out of the packed arena. He didn’t see Falkirk’s eyes following them as they left.

The night grew quieter and colder as they moved away and Kirwyn seemed wary, his head down, but nevertheless alert where before he had been vacant.

Jude lost himself in the cold air, the wind, the stars, the rippling tent fabric and the tumbling plains, letting muscle memory guide him back to his tent but the muttered greetings of the sulky guards outside his tent, disappointed to be missing out on the fight. The way that Kirwyn was stiff and uncertain through the shirt fabric under his hand grounded Jude as they moved through the tent opening.

He released Kirwyn once they were inside, moving away to light a tallow candle, the night quiet bar a hoarse cough and the shuffle of cold feet in boots from outside and Kirwyn’s shallow breathing inside. The candle wick caught and the flame budded and opened and Jude brought it over to the bed. Though it was full dark, Jude didn’t feel drowsy. He looked over towards Kirwyn, stood silently near the entrance, as he laid his coat down and began to strip off of his clothes, going through the motions of readying himself for sleep even though he didn’t feel like it.

“Kirwyn.” He said, sat down on the furs to untie his boots. The Helveltti came slowly over towards him, long, tangled hair spilling over his shoulders and trailing down either side of his face and over his chest to brush the tops of his hips. Kirwyn shifted from one foot to another under the Islander’s gaze but he sat down without complaint, compliant as Jude slipped his boots free, one foot and then the other. “Kirwyn,” Jude said and then paused, “Are you comfortable? With what you’re wearing. To sleep in?” Kirwyn answered the fragmented question with a jerky nod and Jude cleared his throat, returned the nod and lay down, watching Kirwyn’s back as the man awkwardly followed his lead, leaning on his elbow before sliding onto his side, his bound wrists lying against his back at an angle. Jude sagged into the soft furs with a sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is as much as I've got for now, unless inspiration strikes or I get a good prompt from one of you guys....? As always, kudos and comments appreciated! :)


	5. Green letters and Burnt lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude's reticence, and the soldiers' curious movements, lead Kirwyn to a distressing conclusion. He shares his thoughts over breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update is so short! I decided last week that I'd aim to update 'Devil's Hands' every Tuesday but, when I made that decision, I didn't take my exams into account and was possibly a little optimistic. Oh well. Here it is anyway :)

_Kirwyn_

 

Kirwyn woke alone on the furs. Glancing around the hazily lit tent, he lay motionless until he couldn’t bear the heat and weight of the furs any longer. Sliding out from under them, he got unsteadily to his feet.

His stomach was achingly empty but he ignored it, scouring the shadows. The tent seemed empty of anyone but himself and, glancing warily at the tent flap, Kirwyn moved over to the carved wooden chest; essentially the only piece of furniture in the dark, circular tent. Glancing over his shoulder once more, Kirwyn knelt down by the chest and squinted at the documents Jude had scattered about; spilling onto the floor. Some were covered with a tight, neat type printed on thick, durable paper where others had the identical long, lowly slanted handwriting, pages of notes; all of it utterly indecipherable to Kirwyn. There were letters too, in various styles of writing, with seals in red, black and gold.

A number of letters in the same large, ornate green lettering attracted Kirwyn’s attention. Studying one of the seals, Kirwyn could make out the imprint of a sword, splitting the circular seal horizontally. There were others shapes embedded in the wax, including a strange twirling pattern below the sword, but he couldn’t make them out.

Jude also had a number of books stacked at the side of the chest and Kirwyn flicked one open with his bare toes, crouching down to peer at the same, unreadable text as the letters were written in. Frustrated, he nudged the book back to its original position and wandered over to the other side of the tent. Sat atop a roughly made wooden frame was an elegant leather saddle with a matching bridle, twisted with bronze thread, hung nearby. Sacks of provisions had been propped up against the tent side along with jars of water, oil and wine. The tent itself was sparsely decorated, with the plain strips of cloth crisscrossing overhead seeming to provide support more than anything else and the red-tinted lamps hanging down from the roof were simple and functional.

Losing interest, Kirwyn slumped down on the furs to wait for Jude’s return, sullen.

“Lord Denarex- milord, please-” Kirwyn lifted his head at the sound of a commotion outside, “Just one-”

“I will not hear you. Leave me, now.” Jude’s voice, his accent thick and heavy, cut over the other man’s.

“Milord, just think about it, for the men’s sake-”

“Have you no respect?” Jude’s snarl was enough to silence the man - and every other person in earshot. “Leave me.” There was no more talk. Inside the tent, Kirwyn shivered, twitching his shoulders in discomfort as he sat tensely on the furs, his eyes on the patterned carpets covering the tent floor. A few seconds passed where Kirwyn skin prickled and his heart thudded nervously in his chest before the tent flap was flung open and Jude strode inside. He drew up short, staring,

“Kirwyn?” He said with a slight frown, as if expecting Kirwyn to bow and apologise and leave him alone. Kirwyn quashed the irritation he felt at the man’s reaction,

“Jude.” He responded quietly, remaining exactly where he was. He saw Jude’s lips twitch as the Islander took a step further inside the tent, taking a slender strip of leather from his coat. As Jude scraped his hair away from his face, Kirwyn felt the itch of being watched,

“Have you eaten?” Jude asked, drawing the tie tight. With his hair away from his face, to Kirwyn’s eyes, Jude’s features appeared colder, more severe,

“No sir.” Kirwyn answered, dropping his head.

“Then we’ll get some food for you.” Jude said, turning to leave, leaving Kirwyn to struggle to his feet and follow after him, simmering with resentment.

Outside the tent, the daylight dazzled Kirwyn, though the clouds hung low and heavy and the moisture in the air threatened rain. Jude’s men were moving about with more purpose than he’d seen them do previously and Kirwyn asked if the men were preparing for battle, his throat constricting as he waited for Jude’s answer. He remembered the talk the previous night about the battle at Lindale,

“No,” Jude responded finally, “they are not.” Kirwyn sent a sideways glance in Jude’s direction, falling silent as they headed towards the heart of the Islanders’ camp.

Kirwyn couldn’t ignore how the soldiers’ gazes latched onto Jude as they moved past the lines of tan tents. The men, sat on bits of wood or stood with ale in their hands, turned to look at Jude with stubborn, steady respect, showing the kind of devotion born of a time of such pain and desperation that a man might sell out his brother for a moment’s relief, but which forms bonds stronger than family. Jude was the soldiers’ own King and Kirwyn saw in the way they looked at him that they would follow his command over any other. The looks they sent Kirwyn were chilling.

Stood by the mess tent, Jude paused one of the servers with a touch on the shoulder, gesturing at Kirwyn as he made his request. The server nodded very fast, dipping into a wide-eyed bow before hurrying off with purpose. He came back with a generous plate of spiced bread, steaming, gooey egg and a mug of ale. Kirwyn’s mouth watered.

As he and Jude moved away, Kirwyn was distracted by his surroundings, watching the men’s movements with curiosity verging on suspicion. Along with the usual morning activities of tending the horses, eating, drinking and washing, they were also moving about carrying sacks, jars and boxes over towards where the baggage train rested, loading up the carts and fastening the things down tightly. Kirwyn pressed his lips together and scowled at the ground.

The tent’s interior seemed dismally murky and, when Jude directed him to, Kirwyn sat down heavily on the furs, accepting the first chunk of bread and liquid egg with restless indifference. Jude’s finger burnt Kirwyn’s lip as he fed him and Kirwyn swallowed the food without chewing, ducking his head as he gave a choked splutter. Kirwyn saw Jude pause, sat beside Kirwyn with his legs curled under him and a hand in mid-air,

“You’ve won the war,” Kirwyn said, when Jude didn’t seem inclined to offer him the next bit of food, “Haven’t you, sir?” Jude’s expression both drooped and darkened and he fed Kirwyn in place of answering.

“Yes.” He said finally, “We won the goddamn war.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up: I'm planning to delve further into Jude's background and homeland of Denarex, as well as exploring the tensions between Jude and Kirwyn in the best/worse way. Hope you enjoy! Kudos, comments and prompts greatly appreciated!! :D


	6. Insolence and Blankets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place over two days. Returning hungry and exhausted from his work in the forest, Kirwyn snaps at Jude. With the camp on the move, Jude and Kirwyn sleep rough and Jude makes a move. They both regret their actions.

_Kirwyn_

 

Kirwyn was brought back to Jude’s tent by one of the guards, exhausted and aching from the day’s work. The guard had bound his wrists before leading him back through camp towards Jude’s tent. Even this late in the day there were soldiers up and working, preparing to move on. The baggage train was filling up, though the piles of belongings seemed diminished, spread out over a string of carts that would once have transported provisions and possessions belonging to men that were now long gone.

Kirwyn paused at the tent entrance with the guard waiting behind him,

“In you go.” The man prompted him with a nudge and Kirwyn trudged inside, frowning at a strange rasping noise. He found Jude sat working at a metal breastplate with an acidic smelling scrub, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Kirwyn pulled his gaze away as he came in, brows crumpling slightly as he tried to remember how far up Jude’s arm the Devil’s hands had extended previously. Had his arms been dark all the way past his elbow? Kirwyn couldn’t remember and when he hesitantly glanced over at Jude again, Jude had pushed his sleeves down to hang around his wrists, though he continued to ignore Kirwyn’s presence.

Minutes passed and Kirwyn, legs heavy as sand-bags, sat down clumsily on Jude’s furs, bringing his knees to his chest. His stomach was painful with hunger and when he swallowed his mouth was dry and sticky.

He listened to the guards outside talking quietly to a third person, a man. He was loudly insisting that he needed to speak to Jude but the guards were refusing him and, after several minutes of arguing, he left.

Kirwyn found himself watching Jude scraping the metal with even strokes, the noise grating on Kirwyn’s nerves. When Jude finally put the gritty cloth aside, he wiped the plate down and began oiling it, his hands gleaming. The oil had a heady fragrance and Kirwyn pushed his nose into his knees; the strong scent made his head ache.

“Milord?” Kirwyn saw Jude straighten,

“Yes?”

“Letters for you, milord.” The guard said. Kirwyn watched as Jude set the armour aside and moved over to the entrance. “Church was asking for you,” The guard said from outside, “but I turned him away.”

“Good.” Jude came inside holding several letters in his teeth and Kirwyn watched him tearing open another. Spitting out the other letters on the top of the chest, Jude stood scanning the open letter almost hungrily. Kirwyn watched as Jude snorted, mouth twitching at the corners as he read, a small smirk lingering on his face as he sat down, drawing out a clean page. Several minutes passed where Jude wrote in silence, glancing back at the open letter in a manner that was almost fond.

A moment passed before Jude twisted suddenly to look at Kirwyn, his expression irresolute and Kirwyn stared back for a long second, startled. He managed to push his gaze to the floor, feeling Jude’s gaze weighing heavily on him and Jude turned back to his letter, though he wrote more slowly and there was a tension in his shoulders which had previously been absent. He filled up the paper and Kirwyn lowered his head to his knees again. Jude’s rough voice broke the silence,

“What are you thinking?” Kirwyn turned his head away, avoiding Jude’s gaze in favour of the tent wall. He stayed silent, “Kirwyn.” Jude’s tone was heavy,

“Nothing,” Kirwyn said coldly, “My head was empty.”

“You’re a liar.” Jude said quietly and Kirwyn’s stomach clenched. But there was no bite to Jude’s words and he turned wordlessly back to his letter. Kirwyn’s momentary fear transformed into a flush of anger and he glared at Jude’s back,

“I was thinking, _sir_ ,” Kirwyn snapped, cursing himself even as the words exploded out of his mouth, “that I haven’t drunk anything all day, my stomach is empty and that you’ll likely sell me to some whorehouse,” Jude turned to face him, watching him with sinister, emotionless intensity, “once you get back to your blood-money castle and your slave girls.” Jude’s reply was flat,

“I’m not selling you.” Kirwyn forced his gaze back to the worn carpet,

“You've thought about it. Maybe you’ll rent me out instead. Why wouldn’t you?” Kirwyn didn’t recognise the awful bitterness in his tone, “Or put me in the arena; watch me die in the name of entertainment- My people were worthless to you, why should I have value?” Kirwyn’s voice had risen and he finally cut himself off, though much too late. Jude said nothing. He turned back to his letter and wrote with small, deliberately movements of his hand. When he spoke he did it in a similarly deliberate, clipped manner,

“Your people were weak.” Kirwyn forcefully kept his lips pressed together, kept his head down. He should have controlled his emotions better. Why hadn’t he learnt yet? “The strong conquer the weak. It’s the way things are and you should accept it.” Kirwyn kept silent. In his peripheral vision he saw Jude straighten as he finished his letter, blotting and sealing it with wax. He stood, then, leaving the letter on the side, and Kirwyn felt himself hunch down smaller. He was disgusted with himself.

Jude left the tent with two abrupt strides, disturbing the air as he swept past so that it stirred the lank tendrils of hair hanging down either side of Kirwyn’s face.

In the time it took for Jude to return, Kirwyn considered searching for a weapon. He envisioned freeing himself with the weapon and killing the two guards at the entrance before slipping away through camp. He imagined his people huddled, anxious but alive, just out of sight beyond the forest, saw them come to their feet to embrace him. Imagined Jude looking around his empty tent and being relieved that Kirwyn was gone.

But Jude came back and Kirwyn – pathetically, _weakly_ – ate what Jude fed him, watched dully as the Islander removed his boots and did as he was told, lying beside Jude like an obedient hound, an inanimate toy soldier.

His nightmares jolted him awake three times before dawn came but he didn’t disturb Jude.

 

….

 

The next morning, they moved on; Jude swinging up onto a horse to ride as an indistinct figure shimmering with the heat at the front of the line, Kirwyn walking amongst the rear-most soldiers, his hands bound in front and attached by a line to one of the horses pulling the luggage train.

Kirwyn had overheard Jude telling the man driving the horse to give Kirwyn something to drink every two hours, and the man did so with impassive patience, not speaking a word to Kirwyn. The other soldiers spat on him and leered in mutters, calling him weak and pampered and worse, though they didn’t touch him because he was Jude’s and there was a line they wouldn’t cross.

The miserable, oppressively hot day dragged its feet as they climbed the gravel paths and traversed whole plains of barren, cracked mud, pocked with the stubs of trees blistered by fire.

They passed through vacant villages

fields of rotting crops

along endless roads

that wound around the next bend and didn’t end

cows’ corpses decomposed

and the soldiers sang

and people passed

and it

went

on

 

_Jude_

 

They pulled up to settle for the night and the darkness came down to rest icily. Once everyone was settled, Jude urged his horse to move towards the back of the line. At first he moved slowly, responding to the lords’ and the soldiers’ greetings cordially, but he grew impatient and pushed forwards to canter the rest of the way. In the dark and amongst numerous baggage carts, Jude moved back and forth but was unable to find Kirwyn’s slender form,

“Can I help you with something milord?” One of the soldiers approached him and Jude, still scouring the darkness around him for Kirwyn’s fox-fur hair, replied briskly,

“I’m looking for a Helveltii. Tall. Male. Mine.”

“Attached to a baggage cart milord?” Jude focused his full attention on the man,

“That’s right.” He said. The soldier seemed to flounder for a moment under Jude’s gaze and Jude told himself to be patient. The man straightened slightly,

“Just over here, milord,” The soldier said, gesturing, “I’ll lead the way, if it pleases you.” Jude dismounted and gave the man a nod. With that, the soldier hurried forwards and Jude followed him with long, stiff strides, his horse moving obediently at his side.

Kirwyn was huddled with his back against one of the baggage cart’s rear wheels. He had his knees drawn up with his bound wrists between his calves, the light-coloured rope snaking across the ground, attached to the front of the cart.

Even from twenty paces away, he could see Kirwyn shaking and Jude thanked the soldier shortly before coming over. Kirwyn didn’t react, didn’t even seem to realise that Jude was there. Jude tied his horse next to the others, its snorting breath hot and moist in the frigid air, before drawing out folded blankets and wrapped bread from his saddlebags. One of the nearby group of soldiers approached him with a flagon of alcohol and Jude forced a polite reply, swallowing several mouthfuls of the weak ale before coming to crouch down in front of Kirwyn. Kirwyn stiffened noticeably and he kept his shoulders curved inwards protectively. Jude backed off a little, setting down his things on top of the blanket before moving slowly to take Kirwyn’s sleeved arm, lifting it up to look at Kirwyn’s wrists, wincing at the abrasions there. Kirwyn’s compliance unnerved him and he lay Kirwyn’s arm back down gently.

“Kirwyn,” Jude said. He saw the man lift his chin slightly, “Are you cold? You’re shaking. Kirwyn?” Jude received a dull ‘yes sir’ in response and Kirwyn seem to close down for several moments, as he had after- Jude cut off the thought, not wanting to remember the dead look on Kirwyn’s face after Jude had forcefully restrained him.

Jude moved to sit on the blankets, indicating for Kirwyn to join him before he took off his own boots and slid under his furs, pulling his brown leather coat firmly around himself as he lay down. A light rain had started and Jude pulled his hood up, hunkering down under the blankets. Kirwyn hadn’t moved and Jude said sternly,

“Kirwyn come here.” Jude watched as Kirwyn did as he was told, moving stiffly to fumblingly remove his boots with his hands still bound, kicking them away. The blankets shifted as Kirwyn moved underneath them, lying with his back to Jude, shuddering. Kirwyn’s damp hair lay splayed across the space between them, baring one side of his strong, pale neck to the rain and open air. Jude moved to lift the blankets higher, covering Kirwyn, before shifting forwards to lightly place an arm over Kirwyn’s waist.

Kirwyn went rigid with a half-whimper, half-growl and Jude pulled his arm away, tucking it close to his chest,

“Easy, Kirwyn.” He muttered, his face flushing in the cold night, feeling sick and ashamed. With the fire light from the nearby soldiers, Jude saw how Kirwyn was trembling and he shifted away, turning his back on the Helveltii to look out at the dead night, swallowing thickly.

It was several minutes before the blankets moved and Jude felt Kirwyn shift closer. Although he couldn’t feel Kirwyn against him, Jude relaxed marginally and the darkness lulled him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're with me this far, thanks for sticking around! Please do let me know what you think of characterisation/pacing/plot/dialogue etc. All and any feedback is welcome, along with any prompts for what you'd like to see coming up next. Comments and kudos make me happy!


	7. A Shadow That's Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirwyn makes a discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm going to ignore how *very* long its been since I updated this and hope that all the new stuff makes up for my absence! I hope you enjoy, please let me know your feedback in the comments - it makes it all worthwhile :)

_Kirwyn_

 

Kirwyn woke before Jude did. The Islander was laid out on his back, left mostly uncovered by the blankets. Kirwyn noticed something then, something he hadn’t seen before. The lacings on the front of Jude’s shirt were loose and gaping open and Kirwyn could see what might be taken for a shadow, but looked too dark to be one, considering the growing light of dawn. Kirwyn shifted his position warily, trying not to wake Jude. There; he was sure. Jude’s devil’s hands extended out onto the planes of Jude’s chest – and Kirwyn was certain that that had not been the case when they’d bathed in the lake,

“K’wyn?” Jude’s voice was slurred, rough, and Kirwyn snapped his gaze away from the gap in Jude’s shirt, leaning back,

“Yes,” he cleared his throat, “Yes sir?” Jude groaned, stretching luxuriously like a cat. Kirwyn tried not to look at Jude’s chest but Jude stilled regardless, turning his attention onto Kirwyn with eyes that were suddenly sharply perceptive,

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, sir.” Kirwyn asserted, trying to put something of genuine bafflement into his tone. He mustn’t have succeeded as Jude sat up suddenly, making Kirwyn shift away,

“Was it nightmares?” Jude asked, “Are you ill?”

“I- no, sir.” Jude scowled suddenly and Kirwyn regarded the Islander warily,

“You’re calling me ‘sir’ again.” He observed. Kirwyn looked away,

“I’m sorry. Jude.” He said. Jude released a breath and stood up, his hands coming up, perhaps unconsciously, to tighten the strings of his shirt below his neck.

He moved away to fetch the breakfast things. Kirwyn, with his hands bound in front, was able to feed himself, if clumsily and Jude let him, giving him half the bread with a bit of wrapped up meat. Kirwyn was itching to ask about Jude’s Devil’s hands and he had to fight to keep his head down. He could hear the sounds of other soldiers beginning to rise; the clashing of pots and curses.

“Is this- about last night?” Jude’s voice was unusually soft and Kirwyn met the Islander’s dark eyes for a moment. Kirwyn recalled Jude’s arm coming to rest above his hip in the night-time black; the shot of pure fear, “I didn’t mean to alarm you.” Jude looked away, “It will not happen again.” Kirwyn was frozen, Jude’s Devil’s hands momentarily forgotten. This man was like none he had ever met before. They’d said such terrible things of the Islanders but- Kirwyn couldn’t reconcile the image of the monsters he had in his mind with the reserved, otherworldly man beside him,

“You aren’t what I thought you would be.” Kirwyn said quietly. Jude brought a piece of meat to his mouth, his head turned away, though Kirwyn knew he’d heard,

“We’re headed for my home-country.” He said with a fond note to his voice.

“Denerex.” Kirwyn remembered. A smile tilted Jude’s mouth,

“Denarex.” He corrected, his accent thickening. He got to his feet, suddenly, running a hand through his unruly hair, tightening his leather hair tie as he did so and scrubbing a palm across his eyes. The soldiers were up and about now that dawn was shining full and damp, “You should get ready to ride soon. We’ll head out early.”

Kirwyn shuffled forward ungainly to pull on his boots with difficulty, the rope chaffing his wrists. Jude packed his things with practiced speed and secured his saddle bags to his horse. He swung himself up and indicated for Kirwyn to come up behind him.

“I’m fine to walk.” Kirwyn said. Jude looked down on him from the magnificent height of his mount,

“Come up, Kirwyn.” Jude said, “I’ll find you a horse later, for now you ride with me.”

“As you wish.” Kirwyn muttered, putting his left foot into the stirrup. Jude grasped his upper arm as he pushed himself up and though the horse pranced away, Kirwyn swung his leg over its back and kept his balance. Jude released Kirwyn’s arm once and turned to gather up the reins. Kirwyn took hold of a handful of the Islander’s coat and they took off, the horse bounding forwards underneath them in a manner Kirwyn hadn’t realised he’d missed until it happened. His eyes watered in the rush of wind and he tucked his forehead against Jude’s shoulder as he gathered himself, feeling wrongly safe high above the ground, sheltered behind Jude. He tightened his hold on the Islander’s jacket as they bounded towards the front of the column of men, slowing to a proud saunter, the sway of their mount rocking Jude’s shoulder in a manner that appeared arrogant. Jude’s army was already on the move and Kirwyn glanced back at the snake of men crawling across the countryside with a sick twist of his stomach. He was reminded, with a lurching jolt, of Jude’s power; his Devil’s hands, his physicality, his army, his social status, his people. Jude’s power had been contained, but Kirwyn forced himself to remember all the death it had caused, that Jude’s protection was false. Kirwyn was sheltering behind a volcano.

He drew himself tall, pulling himself away from Jude’s body with a shiver, letting the cold air whip through the space between them. He grounded himself and the day slipped away down the rutted roads and across the hillocks.


	8. A Demon, a Mother and a Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude and Kirwyn arrive in Denarex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one, I hope you enjoy it. Pleasey please please let me know what you think!

_Kirwyn_

 

Kirwyn felt Jude turn his torso to look over his shoulder at the same time Kirwyn realised his head had fallen forwards to rest on Jude’s shoulder blade.

“My horse is wearying.” Jude said as Kirwyn lifted his head, the muscles in his neck protesting painfully, “You will ride the horse Falkirk has found for you.” Kirwyn dragged himself into full wakefulness and muttered his assent, not that Jude required it. He scanned their syrupy, late-afternoon surroundings whilst Falkirk’s horse was being readied. Kirwyn watched it dance sideways as Falkirk’s handman tried to saddle it, its tail a high-spirited arch, and he remembered the men’s hostility when he had walked at Jude’s side, and Falkirk’s hungry eyes when he had invited Jude to his bed. Jude was the strongest person Kirwyn had ever met, but he was aware that no man, Devil’s hands or not, was omnipotent, and that Jude’s people could make his life very uncomfortable if they took a disliking to him. Kirwyn continued to watch the prancing horse with unfocused eyes before looking up around him. This dark land was harsher than the rich plains of Kirwyn’s homeland, undulating in rocky tufts that made for hard riding. They were travelling consistently higher, the horses straining against the gradient with a fierce, bitter wind battering at them whenever they dared to stand exposed. The only spots of colour was the unnaturally bright lichen blooming on the bony rocks, the earth’s skin of loose, black earth and flakes of meagre turf, was thin here and the roughness made Kirwyn feel unsettled. This place was dead, he felt, and the boundaries between those above ground and those under it seemed thin, the brutal winds tearing up the ground mercilessly. It both shot electricity through Kirwyn and made him feel deeply unsafe. This was Jude’s land, more than any other than had previously crossed, and where, before the Islanders had come in the flesh and torn a hole ruinously through Kirwyn’s world, Kirwyn had almost begun to dismiss the fable of men with Devil’s hands, with powers beyond those of a mortal, the speed and strength of an animal lethally combined with a man’s intelligence. Here, the earth seemed to crackle, the wind howling with restrained life, so that Kirwyn knew it to be an inevitability that some of that energy made the leap from earth to body. Jude was made of the rocky bones of the land and it sang with the heat in his dark arms.

Falkirk’s handman, a man like a birch tree, slender and monochromatic with sharply delicate features, had finally managed to force the horse to take the bit, tightening the bridle with quick fingers and a terse mouth. He wrenched the girth strap tight and shot Kirwyn a look of grudging pity when the horse pranced before he scurried back to Falkirk, the man riding high atop a pure grey mount, and remounting.

Kirwyn saw Jude glance over the restlessly twitching creature with an inscrutable expression before lifting his head to give Falkirk a nod. Kirwyn’s attention was drawn to Jude’s hands as the Islander adjusted his hold on the reins and a knife appeared in his palm. Kirwyn realised Jude’s intention and offered his bound hands, though he doubted himself when Jude made no move to free him. Jude turned to look at him,

“Do not try to run from me.” There was storms and hell-fire in those eyes and Kirwyn shuddered a nod,

“I will not.” He said, and meant it. The attempt would be suicide, at the hands of Jude’s men when they caught him, or else these inhuman elements that despised him as readily as they enfolded Jude. Apparently sufficiently convinced, Jude cut him free and Kirwyn dismounted, his boots crunching down on the loose stones. He stepped away, moving to swing himself up onto Falkirk’s loaned creature, seeing its eye roll around to give him a look of fear-edged hatred. Its coat was black enough and its eyes wild enough that Kirwyn thought grimly of it as ‘Demon’ as he took hold of its saddle pommel and lifted himself smoothly into the saddle.

The moment his weight settled on the creature, Demon, skipped sideways, jerking its head forward and down, pulling Kirwyn forwards before violently lurching back and up. Kirwyn was almost thrown from the horse’s broad back and when he managed to keep his seat, he could think of nothing but staying there. The horse stood as tall as, if not taller, than Jude’s mount and, as Demon lurched upwards into the air, Kirwyn gripped the saddle and the horse’s thick neck with grim, desperate fingers, fearing a broken neck or back if he was thrown, picturing his skull shattered on one of those knife-like juts of rock. He struggled against the lurching, thrusting throws of Demon’s bucking, the horse’s impressively powerful hindquarters flinging them up almost a foot in the air almost on the spot. Kirwyn was vaguely aware of Jude’s men turning their attention on him, lewdly laughing and jousting in the expectation that Kirwyn would soon be on the ground. Kirwyn gripped Demon’s round ribs with his knees and grappled with the reins until he had a grip on them. Jude’s horse, not far off to Kirwyn’s left, whinnied at Demon’s struggles, the horse’s rearing bringing its lethal hooves too close to the body of Jude’s horse for comfort. The men sobered as Jude was forced to shift his horse away from Demon, and accusatory eyes were turned in Falkirk’s direction for giving a slave a horse he couldn’t handle and putting milord in danger.  

Kirwyn growled as Demon lifted itself into the air again and again with vicious power and Kirwyn was slammed down in the saddle, fear shooting through his stomach in a rush of adrenaline. The men’s attention was pulled back to Kirwyn at the growl and he felt their silence as much as heard it, the wind seeming to hang in suspense, watching the barbarian’s red hair lift and swing as he rode the horse’s violence, his eyes blazing fit to rival Jude’s burning hands. Kirwyn felt the tension, the possibility for respect, hanging there and he clung to Demon as the horse lurched upwards, riding out several small bucks before Demon reared again and Kirwyn hung on to the horse’s neck as Demon stood, unbelievably, to near vertical. Time seemed to hold its breath in the seconds before Demon’s hooves thudded back down to earth.

Kirwyn had Demon’s head in hand, turning it forcefully to the right and the worse of Demon’s struggling eased off as the horse bucked and pranced in tight circle, unable to put power behind its fight with its head pulled to the side. With a few final, stubborn protests, Demon relented and Kirwyn drew himself up straight to stare at Falkirk. Kirwyn was a slave; he couldn’t curl his lip and spit or accuse Falkirk, but he put his accusation into his glare. Falkirk’s returning expression was icy, laden with personal hatred. Kirwyn saw the man’s eyes move to Jude and Kirwyn, too, turned his attention to Jude, though he remained cautiously aware of Demon’s powerfully shifting form underneath him. Jude’s gaze was on Falkirk, his expression cold,

“You are fortunate,” Jude said, each word sharp, “that my slave is a capable rider.” Kirwyn observed, with pleasure, as Falkirk visibly stiffened,

“Excellent rider, milord.” Falkirk said, perfectly evenly. Jude sourly looked the man over once more before pushing his horse forwards, breaking the tension in the group. Kirwyn, carefully, guided a sullen Demon to follow him. Jude rode in silence and Kirwyn didn’t break it.

 “We are close.” Jude said finally and Kirwyn made a noise, a weary hum, of acknowledgement. The houses emerging out the ethereal mist had been sparse and often derelict and abandoned up until this point in the journey, but now sprouted in thick bunches. They passed through whole villages, places of throbbing life where the first children Kirwyn had seen since he was taken from his people, stopped their play to stare up at Jude and his men, and Kirwyn too, with his strange hair and restless black creature beneath him, awe-filled as only a child can be. Kirwyn found his eyes stinging with feeling and he blinked and gritted his teeth, drawing his face into a hostile mask. _Children grow up_ , he reminded himself, _Jude was a child once. Now he is a man._ The thought of Jude as a child lingered and, though Kirwyn’s thoughts were diverted, it was not the thoughts he wanted to linger on and he twisted his mind from them, just as he wrestled for Demon’s head. 

The people, their clothing dark, their faces lined and as weathered as the land, were awed by Jude, also, but with a wariness the children were oblivious too. Kirwyn looked on them as Jude rode regally by, the peoples’ hands spread palms upwards to Jude as they bowed in a gesture of devotion, their empty hands presumably originally used to show a lack of weapons. _A people of war and mistrust_ , Kirwyn thought, thinking of his own people and the dead.

The citadel came into view through the persistent mist and Kirwyn was taken aback at the size of it. It loomed like a thunderstorm, a dark, dense gargantuan mass that seemed to hunch over to glare at Kirwyn as they moved closer, the mist shrouding it at intervals as if Kirwyn was unworthy, unwelcome.

Where Kirwyn grew more reluctant, Jude rode eagerly, his horse skipping forwards in erratic bursts as Jude pushed it forwards before he drew it back to a dignified strut. Jude trembled with energy, and the waves of heat coming off his hands were tangible, despite the cold, damp mist.

They rode up to the citadel and the guards drew back the gates and straightened, snapping their fist to their opposite shoulder with fierce loyalty in salute. Jude returned their salute with pride and righteousness and Kirwyn set his mouth and drew a chilling breath into his lungs, locking his eyes forward and his jaw high.

Word had run ahead of them and the people of the citadel, soldiers and tradesmen, servants and families, were crowded, ready to welcome their soldiers home, their heroes. There was no wariness here, or if there was, then the people of the court hid it better, as they roared and clapped and laughed and chanted with what seemed like genuine happiness, their noise and numbers making Kirwyn’s horse snap and fight against the bit. A group of men started up a chant off to the right making Demon start away, a woman leaped forwards suddenly and Demon whinnied, people pressed in and Jude’s horse jostled Demon and Demon kicked off, bellowing a screaming call of bestial panic. The horse was fighting Kirwyn, locking his legs, starting backwards, its muscles bunching as it gathered power,

“Kirwyn,” Jude said, his tone wary, a warning.

“They’re too close.” Kirwyn spat back, lifting his voice over the din of the crowd, fighting Demon with weary hands, his palms made raw by the reins. Jude stood up in his saddle, surprising Kirwyn, and lifted his arms with a roar of,

“Back!” and the people obeyed, backing away to give Demon space. Given the room to fret, an equally weary Demon allowed itself to be wrestled under Kirwyn’s control and Kirwyn felt Jude’s gaze on him. He tried to school the exhaustion from his drawn face but he knew he wasn’t entirely successful. The party rode on towards the thick second, inner wall, many of the soldiers having already taken their leave to go home to their villages. The remainder went on towards the foreboding block of the central fortress inside it and Kirwyn feared. They passed through a second set of gates closed behind immediately them with a sickening thud and clang of metal bolts, before proceeding across a narrow, wooden bridge spanning what seemed like an artificial river, the broad, stagnant waters of which surrounded the inner walls of Jude’s home. Jude turned his horse to the right, following the line of the inner wall and Kirwyn reluctantly nudged his horse to follow. There, before them, was the fortress that was so securely nestled at the heart of Jude’s city.

The servants of Jude’s house were gathered around the grey fortress, the base of it as wide as two dozen horses, its height was incomparable to anything Kirwyn had seen; taller than the city wall by far. Kirwyn hated the building on sight, if it could be called so. It looked like a challenge to the sky, a home built not to hold love but to withstand war. It looked like a cage.

Kirwyn’s gaze moved over the group of insubstantial people splayed across the fortress steps and his attention settled on a woman poised at the top of the steps. She was older and radiated luxurious entitlement, sheltering under what looked like a foot-long golden fan, its surface waxed so that, when held by a slave or servant at an angle, it protected the woman, dressed as she was in a soft grey dress, from the light rain, almost indistinguishable from the mist.

Jude leapt from his horse, landing strong and bandy legged on the sodden ground and, handing over his horse, moved up the steps, congenially greeting the servants as he went, acknowledging their sweeping bows with light touches gracing their upturned palms. Jude didn’t linger long enough to burn them but, as Kirwyn watched, he couldn’t prevent himself from imagining what might have occurred if Jude or another lord with Devil’s hands had been displeased – by a disrespectful smirk, a shallow bow or some previous slight – and grasped one of the servants’ hands tightly instead of brushing it. Kirwyn saw a young woman’s trembling, her head dropped low as Jude passed, and was certain that what he imagined had come to pass, at some time not so long ago.

Jude, however, swept up the stairs efficiently, only pausing halfway to watch Kirwyn dismount. Kirwyn body didn’t have the same resilience Jude’s did and he knew he concealed his pains poorly when he straightened stiffly and met Jude’s eyes. A moment passed and the thought passed through Kirwyn’s head that he should have dipped his head, lowered his gaze. But he thought he saw Jude’s eyes glint with amusement and Jude only waited impatiently for him to follow, showing no sign of displeasure. Kirwyn came forwards, startling when Demon’s reins were taken from him. He recovered his composure immediately and moved to climb the steps, feeling the eyes of Jude’s household tracking him and giving his finest impersonation of stubborn pride, knowing his hair to be a flame amongst Jude’s shadow-clad people as he held his chin as high as a prince’s. He had enough pride left to put on an outward show of it, but not enough that it had any true hold over his thoughts when he was as fatigued as he was.

Up ahead of him, Jude had climbed the last steps, acknowledging the last of the servants, and he reached the woman Kirwyn took to be the Islander’s mother. He came to a halt before her, greeting her with a quiet, “Lady Arete.” And then, gently, “Mother,” before presenting his upturned hands in a low bow, a show of humbleness, equal in depth to the servants’ bows. Kirwyn kept his face carefully blank as he watched the display, standing, quietly, two steps down from Jude. Jude’s mother brushed his hands with affectionate, though careful, fingers in recognition of his action and Jude rose, showing a rare glint of white, feline teeth as he and his mother locked gazes, though they maintained a distance of cold integrity between them. Jude’s mother smiled with tight lips, her eyes glassy as she looked on her son and Kirwyn saw her hands tremble where they were clasped demurely in front of her. Jude’s eyes were wide and lost and his arm twitched abortively towards her. A moment passed in silence as Jude and his mother took in each other.

A man stepped up smartly behind Jude’s mother, drawing Kirwyn and Jude’s attention alike.

“Jude, my brother.” The man said, clearly audible, and Kirwyn watched as Jude turned from his mother to look critically over a slightly younger, golden man standing before him, dressed in a pristine, pale blue outfit that exaggerated the strength of his body.

“Serin.” Jude returned, his voice clearer than it usually was, though Kirwyn could hear the coarseness of it when spoken alongside the other man’s clipped, courtly syllables. Jude had his full attention focused on his brother and he seemed to be waiting. Leisurely, Jude’s brother delivered a bow. It was as low, if not more so, than Jude’s had been to his mother.

“A pleasure.” Serin said as he lifted himself out of the bow with grace, an easy smile spreading up his face and making his eyes wrinkle delightfully at the corners. Jude’s nod was dull in comparison and Serin looked mildly affronted for a moment, before smiling more gently and bowing again. He moved backwards smoothly, leading the way into the fortress’s dimly lit, cavernous centre, “There will be such a magnificent feast,” he said, putting heartfelt amusement into every word as Jude took the arm his mother offered and stepped forwards to follow Serin, “in honour of the joyous occasion of your return, that you will not be able to move for a week, you will be sated so.” Kirwyn had to restrain the insane urge to laugh when he moved to follow the three and saw heat rise in Jude’s cheeks at Serin’s mild crudity. Serin seemed to be equally amused at Jude’s reaction and laughed surprisingly deeply, as he had forgotten the pleasure of it all. Kirwyn noticed too that Jude’s mother’s lips twitched upwards.

“You always had a talent for extravagance.” Jude replied, returning Kirwyn’s attention to him. The rough solemnity of Jude’s tone somehow seemed to make it all the more worth listening closely to untangle his carefully selected words from the burrs of his soldier’s accent. Serin’s mouth lifted up further up at the corners,

“It shall be glorious.” He said in his masculine lilt, “the finest night of your life.” Jude gave his brother a brittle smile as several passing servants halted to bow respectfully to the party. Jude didn’t pause to acknowledge them,

“The finest night of my life would involve more than five hours of undisturbed sleep.” He said, and Kirwyn stiffened, _my nightmares_ , he thought instantly. The smile slipped instantly from Serin’s face and his brow wrinkled in concern,

“I apologise.” He said, “Despite the poets’ talk of glory, the battlefield, I have heard soldiers tell when goaded with more wine than is good for their sanity, is a grim, desperate affair.” Kirwyn could see that Jude was listening, “Here, as I’m sure you remember despite your intolerably long absence, bad news is painted as good and catastrophic events are occasion for a feast. The stories are gilded with gold and tiredness of soul is an ailment that can be soothed by more wine, more parties.” Kirwyn followed, wraith-like, as Serin and Jude, with his mother on his arm, advanced into the cave-like fortress. The alien lilt of Serin’s voice was oddly enchanting, “I apologise, Jude, because I forgot for a moment that you are family, and that we may speak truth between us.” Kirwyn had the abrupt urge to shake himself, to rattle his head free of its befuddlement,

“Soldiers are honest creatures.” Jude allowed after a pause, studying his brother like the man was a pale blue moth of a species half-forgotten.

“Serin shouldn’t speak as he does.” Jude’s mother said pointedly and Kirwyn felt the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably, though she didn’t look back at him, would never reduce herself to looking over her shoulder to frown at slaves. Kirwyn was glad when Serin smoothly picked up the comment,

“And yet Serin does as Serin pleases,” He smiled, settling easily back into a jesting tone, “and he’s not dead yet.” Jude shoved his brother playfully as if affronted by his brother’s flippancy and Serin staggered away, clutching his shoulder dramatically, “I am wounded, dreadfully wounded!” He moaned, “And I fear this day will be my last,” he waved, a talented actor, at a passing serving girl carrying food that Kirwyn guessed would be required for the ‘magnificent’ feast Serin had boasted of, “bring me wine, our finest vintage! My last drink, alas!” Jude laughed loudly at Serin’s performance and at the poor girl’s shocked face and the sound startled Kirwyn with its suddenness,

“You little snake-” Jude started, cheerfully waving the girl away when she floundered,

“Heavens!” Jude mother’s said in reference to Jude’s laugh, putting her hand to her chest, “You half made my heart jump, you scared me so thoroughly!”

“My apologies,” Jude said, putting an arm around her shoulders, obviously once broad they were now hunched and were diminished further by Jude’s dark bulk. Jude was still laughing, “I startled myself also,” he said, “I had forgotten what my laugh sounded like.”

“Laughter is the only commodity here that is never bartered or in short supply.” Serin said with a bitter edge. He patted Jude’s shoulder with a slender hand, his fingers thin and pale as bones, “Yours will be a welcome sound, all the same.”

“Ever the flatterer.” Jude said wryly and his mother agreed,

“The pair of you shall terrorise the court.” She said. Serin agreed easily and spoke again, triggering another bout of Jude’s laughter. Kirwyn noticed that, as Jude’s brother spoke, his fingers, which were clasped elegantly behind his back, moved apart, flexed and intertwined again. Against the pale sheen of his morning-blue jacket his fingers squirmed like restless white worms and the thought turned Kirwyn’s stomach as he was thrown back to a memory of dead flesh and the white worms that wriggled on it.

He lost the thread of the Islanders’ smug, trivial conversation as they continued forwards and Kirwyn looked around with curiosity dulled by his extreme weariness. This place was beyond anything Kirwyn could have pictured, the scale unimaginable, so that Kirwyn had to stop himself from turning a circle on the spot. He hadn’t pictured that the gods could live like this, it was so grand, so great.

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” Kirwyn startled to realise that Jude was talking to him and he snapped his jaw shut, flushing deeply in humiliation. He was reminded, sharply, of how he had admired the blue eyes of that Outpost soldier and how, when that man’s eyes had latched onto Kirwyn’s it had been the last time Kirwyn saw his people. Kirwyn avoided Jude’s eyes to say, quietly,

“No, milord.” He noticed Serin’s interest and as angelic as the man appeared with his golden glow and easy charm, Kirwyn felt like prey. He suppressed the irrational, unhelpful emotion and did his utmost to blank his expression,

“And what do you think?” Jude said, seeming genuinely curious. Kirwyn felt as trapped by Jude’s attention as he did by Serin’s, but in manner that was subtly but crucially different. He took a moment to glance back up and around the extraordinary building, this nest Jude’s people had built to protect their leaders,

“It is how I imagine the inside of a mountain to look.” He said, realising that Jude, his mother and brother had come to a halt and Kirwyn with them. He shifted his weight, as if he could feel the ground moving beneath him.

“Oh no,” Serin objected, “The insides of mountains are cold and insufferably damp.” He put Kirwyn ill at ease, for no reason Kirwyn could identify,

“I meant no offense.” Kirwyn said carefully.

“No title?” Serin noted, “How coarse and barbaric are the manners of your species.” The danger Kirwyn had been sensing generally from Serin came to sudden immediacy and he stiffened.

“I apologise.” He said, though his anger solidified, ‘ _species’, he says, as if we are not human at all_ and he couldn’t prevent himself lashing out, “But, with respect, I had no instructions concerning you.” His words were intended to diminish; _you do not matter to me_ , he wanted to say, because he could already see that Serin was a creature that needed others to look at him as the sun and revolve around him with worshipful eyes. Serin’s arm shot out with alarming speed, damned fast despite his bulk, and he took Kirwyn’s chin between his fingers. He scrutinised Kirwyn as an insect and though Kirwyn could sense Jude bristling, gathering himself to act, Kirwyn was barely aware of him in lieu of a greater threat,

“You are not even afraid, are you?” Serin mused, “Not of us.” Kirwyn gaze flickered to Jude and Serin noticed, “Jude, perhaps.” Kirwyn wrenched his jaw free,

“I had no instructions concerning you.” He repeated coldly, stepping back. Jude was suddenly between them, even as Serin’s face twisted into something ugly. Serin’s face, when he looked at Jude, had smoothed into idle irritation, a perturbed and bemused expression that said, _how amusing it is to see the mouse wriggle under our paws, is it not, brother?_

“You will not speak to my family in that manner,” Jude growled, clenching his jaw in his anger, and Kirwyn had to fight, truly fight with himself, to restrain himself from reacting to it. Jude continued, “Nor any Islander. You will respond to my family as if they were me. Do you understand?” Kirwyn was aghast at the order, cold, heavy terror coiling in his stomach. Did Jude realise the power he was giving away so flippantly, power over Kirwyn? His fear settled into numbness.

“As you wish, milord.” He managed. Jude might have noticed, something. Kirwyn wasn’t sure what exactly, but regardless he turned to his brother to add,

“Don’t ask anything of him that I wouldn’t.” Kirwyn released a slight breath. That was his out, if Serin demanded something unpleasant of him. Serin would likely not believe half of what Kirwyn would say that Jude wouldn’t ask of him, but it was an out.

“Naturally.” Serin said, adopting a solemn expression. He added, “You honour me with your trust.” Jude hesitated,

“Are you mocking me?” Jude said. Kirwyn, though he was listening only absently, his ears buzzing distractingly, could have cringed,

“No.” Serin said with sincerity, “I can see that he is important to you.” Jude’s face relaxed into indifference,

“He’s entertaining, at least.” He said. Serin laughed as their mother swatted Jude on the arm,

“Don’t talk so crudely.” She scolded. They moved off again, Kirwyn trailing behind in a daze, his eyes on the stone floor. Each slab was larger than six men could have lifted and Kirwyn looked on them expressionlessly, looking up to see the hundreds upon hundreds of great stones that covered the vast hall floor. The wealth, the time, the man-power; Kirwyn shook his head of it.

“How did you acquire him, besides?” Kirwyn heard Jude’s mother ask and Jude’s tone turned serious,

“He was a gift from the Outpost Rulers. They want to negotiate common terms.”

“They surrendered?”

“Yes.”

“But they had some Helveltii?” Serin said,

“Yes, I believe they took in a number of those that escaped.” Images flashed through Kirwyn’s mind. Running from the slaughter, the flames of his home, dragged away by his mother. He remembered the weight of the children on his hips and a baby strapped to his back. He'd been a coward, but he had saved those children the women couldn’t carry. He’d left Auges to die, delaying Jude’s merciless soldiers. Left Mattie’s body still warm and unburied. Kirwyn’s eyes dampened and he blinked it away.

“Then the Outpost have forfeited their right to clemency.” Jude’s mother said coldly. It took Kirwyn a moment to register the statement. Jude protested immediately, as did Serin,

“They have bowed to our authority-” Jude started,

“An attack on the Outpost would be a waste of resources-” Serin continued,

“They should have killed the Helveltii.” Jude’s mother persisted. Kirwyn forced himself to pay attention, pushed away his rising nausea, “That would have been a proper demonstration of their loyalty.”

“They gave Kirwyn away as a slave.” Jude said, frustration clouding his voice, “They would give the other Helveltii as slaves to us if we asked it of them. The Kingdom need not go to war-”

“No.” Kirwyn said and it was loud, ringing in his ears. His people, enslaved? Jude’s family turned to him and he forcefully gritted his jaw against his begging. It was useless. Monsters weren’t merciful. He expected a blow from Jude and it came, flat against his cheek in a moment of burning, pulsing pain, sending Kirwyn stumbling sideways. Compared to the atrocity of enslaving his people, the children, Kirwyn couldn’t begin to care what Jude did to him but he felt terribly, sickening disorientated, all of it worsened by Kirwyn’s terrible tiredness making his muscles protest at every movement. These were the monsters he’d been ordered to fear, worse than any others, but Jude had been different for a while and despite everything, Kirwyn didn’t think what he’d seen of Jude’s temperance had been false. He forced himself to mumble an apology, head bowed,

“Control yourself, Kirwyn.” Jude said, frowning, and Kirwyn apologised even as he swore that, as he hated the man, he hated Jude’s mother more. Jude turned back to Arete, who looked coldly thoughtful,

“We’ll talk of the Helveltii later.” She said, “But you should have killed this one, Jude. He will kill you in your sleep if you let him into your bed.”

“I couldn’t kill him,” Jude said, sounding aggrieved, “Think before you speak, mother. He was a peace offering. To kill him would have been to insolently refuse their surrender. Besides, he hasn’t tried to kill me yet and he’s had some opportunity.”

“Don’t give him such opportunity.” Jude’s mother warned, “The Helveltii are snakes.”

“That may be, but this one has little reason to love his own.” Jude’s mother was silent, “He was one of the ones that ran, wasn’t he? He didn’t care enough to die for his people.” Kirwyn kept his head down and his face blank. He couldn’t tell if Jude was looking at him.

“Don’t underestimate him.” Jude’s mother said, but seemed willing to drop the topic. Serin was not,

“What reason does he have to hate his own?” He said, picking up on Jude’s hesitation. Kirwyn steeled himself for what might follow, for Jude to reveal Kirwyn’s damaged skin as a weakness that any might use against him,

“Enough.” Jude said with finality and Kirwyn released a low breath. There was a lull in conversation and Kirwyn could sense that Serin wanted to push further. Jude’s mother spoke first,

“Come, Jude, you must be tired. Go and bathe and I will send one of the servants up with some food for you. We can talk of Denarex later.” Jude agreed graciously and departed and Kirwyn followed without looking at Serin or Arete, Jude’s wax-faced mother. Jude didn’t object, clearly aware of Kirwyn’s presence, so Kirwyn assumed that this was expected of him. They moved to the edge of the cavernous hall, into a narrow and up several sets of stairs, placed so tightly that Kirwyn, unused to such things, had to be careful of his foot placement. He looked up at one point to find that Jude was out of sight and forced himself to climb faster. He finally caught up with Jude, slightly breathless, and fell in behind him as they surmounted the last few stairs to what Kirwyn expected would be Jude’s private room. He hadn’t expected the size nor the luxury, nor that there would, in fact, be several rooms, all apparently for Jude’s singular use. And now Kirwyn’s, if he wasn’t to be sent away.

“Am I to be sent away, milord?”

“Yes.” Jude said, unexpectedly, “You’ll live with the other slaves unless I send for you.” Jude sighed and looked away, before his anger flared and he gave Kirwyn a sharp glance, “I made it clear that you aren’t to call me by a title in private.”

“My apologies,” Kirwyn said, cutting himself off from speaking further. Three serving women, all of them dressed daringly and flushed with heat, emerged from one of Jude’s room, releasing a bank of steam with them. Kirwyn sent a sideways glance at Jude whilst the Islander’s attention was on the young women but found no spark of desire there, no hunger.

“Your bath is prepared, milord.” The oldest of the women said breathlessly, looking at Jude with something like fearful awe.

“My thanks.” Jude said stiffly, adding, when they lingered, smiling an invitation, “You are dismissed.” The women looked at him with shock for a passing moment before they dipped into apologetic, nervous bows and, shooting Kirwyn knowing glances laced with distain, departed quickly. A moment of silence passed tensely,

“You were not tempted, milord?” Kirwyn dared, looking up at Jude through his hair. He saw Jude shudder and turn deliberately away from Kirwyn,

“Leave me.” He commanded and Kirwyn moved to go with a stiff bow, irritated because he no more knew how to find his way to the staff quarters as he could understand Jude; a man with more sides to him than the moon, “Kirwyn.” Jude halted him with a word and Kirwyn swivelled on his heel to face the Islander with trepidation stirring in his gut, “If you speak to my family as disrespectfully as you did earlier, or otherwise dishonour my wishes, I will give you more than adequate reason to fear me.” Kirwyn dropped his eyes and clenched his hands where they were held behind his back,

“As you wish.” He said, Jude’s title blatantly absent. Jude nodded once and it seemed as good as a dismissal. Kirwyn left gladly, pausing once he was out of sight to gather himself. It took longer than he would have preferred but not so long nor so obvious that any passing staff, slaves or servants, Kirwyn was unable to tell the difference, spared him notice. After a time, he moved down to the great room downstairs to catch up with one to ask the way to the serving quarters and was given a weary but wide-eyed stare and told in a mumble to wait. She moved away hurriedly, glancing at Kirwyn once over her shoulder as if to check that he was staying where she had left him, before turning to her task and swiftly laying down the plate of delicacies onto the increasingly laden table at the far end of the hall. Her figure grew in size as she trotted silently back towards him across the stone floor, indicating with a flick of her head for him to follow, her jaw square, skin grey and tired under the eyes. 

She moved quickly and Kirwyn pushed his aching body to match her pace. They arrived at a place of sudden movement and the noise of it, clanging metal pans and clamouring voices, reached them several minutes before they arrived there. The young woman nodded to Kirwyn and left him floundering at the doorway. Passing out with new dishes balanced in her arms, she saw him loitering and paused to raise an eyebrow at him. When he didn’t speak immediately, she pointed him towards a tall man at the centre of the chaos, seeming to be directing it all.

“Speak to him.” The serving woman told Kirwyn and he thanked her, her weary demeanour broken, abruptly, with a blush as she blinked up at him for a moment, the suggestion of a smile on her lips before she hurried away and left Kirwyn momentarily bewildered. He smiled privately, softly, before straightening his posture and expression and slipping into the overheated kitchen to try to reach the man at the centre. Despite the many people moving around, Kirwyn was given a wide berth, people moving around him with an edge of mistrust in their glances.

“You- you’re elder milord’s Helveltii.” Kirwyn was disconcerted both to find his position known and to have himself referred to solely in relation to another, “What do you want?”

“Milord said I was to remain here until he called for me, sir.”

“It’s Calem.” The man corrected Kirwyn quickly, giving him a considering look, “He’ll want you to serve him at dinner so you best rest up. Can’t have you fainting on him later and, lad, you look dead on your feet.”

“I- that’s fine.” Kirwyn agreed stiltedly. The man nodded, turning to address someone else,

“What else?” He snapped when Kirwyn didn’t move away,

“Where-?” Kirwyn began but was cut off,

“There.” Kirwyn turned to follow the direction of the man’s finger, glancing around at the kitchen before going through a doorway and slowly up two more flights of stairs to arrive in a hallway, each door leading to long, narrow rooms lined with beds. Kirwyn entered one hesitantly, feeling like he was doing something illicit. The beds looked claimed, thrown with different blankets, clothes and possessions. Not wanting to offend, Kirwyn looked towards a small fireplace at the end of the dark, vacant room and lay down on a thin rug matted with coarse animal hair. Kirwyn was too exhausted to care and within minutes of putting his hair down, Kirwyn was asleep.


	9. Feasting on Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirwyn is thrown to the lions and gets licked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's smut in this chapter, if you squint.
> 
> *Edit: 1/12/17*

_Kirwyn_

 

“Shh! Don’t disturb him.” A woman’s voice filtered through Kirwyn’s subconscious,

“He looks fierce. And sweet.” A snort of muffled laughter,

“Don’t be pathetic.”

“His hair’s so strange.”

“He’s young.”

“Quiet, all of you. He shouldn’t be in here.” Kirwyn managed to drag his thoughts together enough to open his eyes and pull himself up to seated. A woman was stood over him with a stern expression on her matronly face, several other women clustered behind. Kirwyn started to his feet fearfully, making the group of women laugh behind their hands as they stared at him. Kirwyn was too torpid to be embarrassed by the attention. He was distracted by the arrival of a man, Calem, Kirwyn thought sluggishly,

“There he is, finally.” Calem grumbled, “Come here, Helveltii, you’re late.” Kirwyn moved to go past the women, watching them cagily as they parted, giggling, to allow him through. He hurried to the end of the sleeping room to where Calem was waiting impatiently, “I don’t have time for this.” He groused as he led Kirwyn across the corridor into another of the rooms full of beds, “And what are you wearing? You can’t serve the elder milord looking like a beggar.” Kirwyn wasn’t affronted in the slightest, his clothes darkened by a permanent layer of dirt from all the time spent living rough amongst Jude’s soldiers. He didn’t protest as Calem nudged him over to where several large chests were pushed up against the wall, flinging one open to pull out several neatly folded items of clothing, depositing them in Kirwyn’s arms. “Change.” Calem ordered and Kirwyn, keeping his back away from Calem’s line of sight, the man was paying him little attention in his impatience, stripped and pulled on the clothes Calem had issued him. Calem fussed over him, doing up his buttons with nimble fingers and straightening Kirwyn’s collar and cuffs. Once finished, he drew back to look over Kirwyn, “You’ll do.” He grunted, pushing Kirwyn out of the room and down the stairs towards the kitchen, “Now listen carefully, you’ll be serving the elder milord, which means taking him wine, topping up his cup if it anything other than full. You’ll take away his plate and take clean ones out for each course. He might ask you for a rinse, in which case you come and pick up one of these.” Calem gestured to where a sideboard was covered in bowls of water with strips of neatly folded cloth beside them. “You don’t talk unless he addresses you, you move quickly and you don’t spill anything. Don’t run into the other servers and if he asks for you something directly, you do it, someone else will take over your jobs if you’re occupied. Your job if to say ‘yes milord’. ‘No’ is not in your vocabulary. Questions?” Calem reached over to smooth down Kirwyn’s hair, “No? Good. Go, you’re on.” Kirwyn saw a wave of other servers wearing a similar uniform move out and he moved to follow behind them, taking the wine jug Calem had thrust into his hands.

They stepped into the great hall, thrown into candle-speckled darkness, the shadows lending the place an air of secrecy and power. The servers fanned out to serve different parts of the table and Kirwyn hurried after them, scouring the hall for Jude. He found him sat near the head of the table and moved over to him with shaking hands, saying nothing as he leaned around Jude to very carefully refill the Islander’s half-empty cup. Jude glanced at him sideways but was quickly disregarded as Jude turned back to continue an animated conversation with the portly man on his right. Mirroring the other serving staff, Kirwyn backed up to the wall and waited, his leg muscles shaking very slightly as he stood, watching Jude carefully to see if he was drinking. He observed that the servers left the diners alone if they’d taken their cup to their lips once or even twice but three times and the server darted forwards to refill without fail.

The night dragged on and Kirwyn had taken Jude’s plate once, twice, and brought him a rinse bowl in which Jude cleaned his fingers and made the water hiss with his Devil’s hands, a fact that made conversation pause as eyes darted towards Jude’s fingers before picking up again. Kirwyn’s cautiously moved in to retrieve the bowl and hurried away for a new plate as other servers carried out more meats, more wine, more food than Kirwyn had seen in his entire life. The smells were agonising too, tantalisingly mouth-watering, juices dripping off the meat as Jude tore meat from the bone, his fingers charring the meat they touched.

Later, whilst returning to the kitchen for more wine, Calem took Kirwyn’s arm to point him to a table laid with luke-warm leftovers,

“Grab a bite but be quick.” Kirwyn gladly did so, feeling dizzy with exhaustion. He stuffed his mouth with the tougher bits of meat and the bits of food even the other servers didn’t want to eat, not wanting to be accused to taking more than his fair share of the food available, though he felt hungry enough that he could have consumed the table’s entire contents. Swallowing down a mouthful with a wince as an unexpectedly hot piece scoured its way through his chest to his stomach, Kirwyn gathered up a fresh wine jug and set back out to where the diners were relaxing, made loose and amicable by drink, repressing a flash of resentment as his body complained at him peevishly, aches and stiffness plaguing him after the hours of hard riding. He pushed it away and stood straight and expressionless by the wall, as the other servers were.

The more wine consumed, the louder the diners became, Jude’s mother flushing a surprisingly dark shade of pink, where Jude’s alcohol – and Kirwyn knew, having served him every cup of drink, that Jude had drunk the best part of three jugs, drinking more and holding it better than the rowdy majority of diners – just made him sharper, flashing his pointed smiles more often with an alarmingly predatory glint to his eye. Kirwyn noticed that even the drunkest diners treated Jude warily, their gazes flickering down to the Islander’s ash-black hands when they thought he wasn’t looking.

Several hours later, after the sweets had been served and Jude had ceased to drink for long enough that Kirwyn’s legs had grown stiff at the knee and he was half-asleep on his feet, Jude got to his feet. His movement drew the hall’s attention, including that of the servers, though they hid it quickly. He announced, his accent thicker than ever, that he was retiring to bed. Amidst the protests of languid guests calling for him to stay, to grace them with his presence. To let them feel the electricity of his power and the thrilling risk of his gaze and his company. He reached up to stretch like a cat so that even over the steady din of conversation, his shoulders audibly clicked.

“Come, milord,” A man called boisterously to Jude from further down the table, “get your barbarian to give us a spin.” Kirwyn stiffened, avoiding eye contact.  

“How about we feed him something, bastard looks hungry.” Kirwyn tried to blank his face amidst growing laughter but couldn’t prevent the heat rising his face. Jude got up, then, with luxurious, animal grace and a pregnant, temporary quiet fell as eyes tracked Jude’s compelling movement. Kirwyn, his eyes carefully unfocused, saw Jude lift a half-empty platter of food out of the alarmed hands of a passing server, lazily approaching Kirwyn, backed to the wall. Kirwyn’s fingers tightened around the wine jug when Jude came to a halt in front of him, his gaze darting from the indecipherable quirk of Jude’s lips, to the far wall and back to Jude before dropping to the floor. His breathing was unsteady.

A fleeting, scalding touch on his chin made Kirwyn flinch and he was conscious of many eyes on him as Jude lifted a finely cut piece of pink meat from the plate and lifted it up, higher than Kirwyn’s lips. Knowing what was expected of him and hating it, Kirwyn tilted his head back, exposing his throat, to take the meat from Jude’s greasy fingers. Jude’s expression was hard and entirely serious, gone was the idle smile, and Kirwyn’s stomach clenched unpleasantly at the sight. He heard, vaguely, the diners laughing as they watched and he thought, with bitter amusement, that these people, high society all of them, didn’t know how similar they were to Jude’s common soldiers. Their jokes were just as, if not more, crude, and their desire for a spectacle was just as callous, their curiosity just as vicious.

“Open.” Jude commanded throatily, his eyes intense, when Kirwyn was slow to accept another piece of meat, held higher each time so that Kirwyn tilted his head further back to receive it. Another piece was dangled nearly level with Kirwyn’s forehead and as he tipped his chin up, inwardly stinging with the humiliation of it, the meat dripped grease onto Kirwyn’s cheekbone. Kirwyn blinked but took the meat from Jude’s fingers and, though his fingers, clamped around the jug, twitched to scrub it from his skin, he didn’t wipe it away, instead feeling the drop run hotly down his cheek to hang on his jaw. The diners were still focused hungrily on the scene and Jude angled his hard body towards them, putting one, hot, nail under Kirwyn’s jaw to angle his head towards them,

“Can’t let good juice be wasted.” He said in a low rumble that made the hair on Kirwyn’s arms shiver and stand tall. Jude lent forwards slowly and Kirwyn, rigid, shut his eyes. Jude’s breath ghosted over Kirwyn’s face, thick with wine and meat, before he ran his tongue along Kirwyn’s jaw from the soft spot under his ear to his chin, catching the grease, before withdrawing. Kirwyn’s eyes flew open and he stood, locked in place. He did nothing.

“That’s gone straight to my cock.” One man grunted none too quietly and Kirwyn glanced over to see the other Islanders watching avidly and he clenched his jaw, looking past them to focus on the far wall. He could feel the echoes of Jude’s tongue on his skin and it made him feel nauseous and filthy.

“You know how to pick them.” Serin said with lewd approval and Jude smiled coldly, his attention focused only on Kirwyn, only pulling himself away to smoothly pass off the plate of food to a serving woman and striding away, clearly aware of the captivated gazes of his audience following him as he paused at the door and looked back,

“Come here, Kirwyn.” He said and Kirwyn’s hands tightened around the jug abortively before it was taken out of his hands by a faceless server and, his ears ringing, Kirwyn moved towards Jude. The distance between them seemed both great and negligible as Kirwyn walked, unable to feel his legs. He made it to the doorway under which Jude had passed, turning out of the sight of their audience, before stumbling, catching himself on the cool wall of the corridor, “Steady.” He heard Jude say, a low voice out of the gloom, and a hand grasped Kirwyn’s upper arm. Dazed, Kirwyn was unresisting as Jude pulled him away, slowly up a set of stairs and then into rooms that Kirwyn vacantly identified as Jude’s private ones.

He heard Jude sigh heavily as he shut his door with a rattle of the bolt, stepping away to pass into the bathroom, leaving Kirwyn alone. His eyes on the floor, Kirwyn released the buttons tight against his throat and down his front, folding the jacket neatly and putting it over a chair, followed by his socks, trousers, his shirt shed like a second skin. He took his small clothes off last, muscles twitching tiredly as cool drafts of air moved over his sticky, heated skin. It must have been several minutes before Jude re-emerged from the bathroom, drying his face on a length of thick cloth but Kirwyn couldn’t recall the time he spent waiting.

Jude’s stride faltered as he stepped out and saw Kirwyn standing there naked, his head angled down, but Jude didn’t stop, only sighed and threw the cloth behind him, onto the bathroom floor,

“Put you smallclothes back on.” Jude said curtly. He’d changed, Kirwyn noticed absently as he did as Jude ordered. Now, the Islander was wearing form-fitting bed-clothes and he ignored Kirwyn as he shifted himself onto a tall, deep bed. He released a weary exhale, gesturing for Kirwyn to come to him. Something under Kirwyn’s mask was relieved to see that the man was tired. It was worse when they were eager.

Kirwyn moved over to Jude and went to kneel, but Jude put out his hand and Kirwyn paused, coming awkwardly back to standing. He waited in silence for Jude to tell him what he wanted.

“Get into bed, Kirwyn.” Kirwyn hesitated, floundering and Jude sighed and moved over to the other side of the bed, patting the space next to him. Kirwyn sat down warily, reclining when Jude told him to. It all made him think of that second night in Jude’s tent and the remembered feeling of panic threatened to force its way up from under the lid he was containing his emotions under. He forced it away and waited for Jude to do something. There was another sigh and Jude rolled over to put his back to Kirwyn, “Stop thinking.” He muttered, his voice gruff with drowsiness, “I can hear you worrying.”

Kirwyn drew a steadying breath and, careful not to disturb the Islander, also turned over to face away from Jude. His heartrate accelerated like he’d been running and several minutes passed before he could calm himself. His body seemed to realise that he was fine, still fine, and a wave of exhaustion washed over him so heavy that he felt like he’d sunk an inch into the mattress. It was only moments before he passed into a death-like sleep.

In his sleep he dreamt that the plains of his homeland had been smothered by ash, thick black dust that cracked as he walked over it. The war, the homes of his people, every indication of human civilization was long buried under the crust, and he found himself locked, motionless, just under the surface, staring up at a sky that never brightened. Kirwyn couldn’t tell the sky from the earth as the sky darkened to the same burnt black-grey as the ground and as he stared, he found that instead of being trapped in the ground he was now instead surrounded by mist, a hot, choking, sulfurous mist that slipped through his fingers as he fell, plummeting, spinning dizzyingly, surrounded on all sides by a grey sky, a grey landscape.

Kirwyn woke violently, struggling against the sweat soaked blankets tangled around him, trapping him. His heart was jerking in his chest and he whimpered as he dragged himself free of the bedding, tumbling off the side of the bed onto the cold, hard floor. The floorboards seemed to drain the heat from him and took the panic with it and Kirwyn sucked in a shaky breath, fighting the panic. He remembered Jude’s presence only a second before he saw the man’s hazy outline walk around the side of the bed, the floorboards groaning under his weight, to stand over Kirwyn, looking down. Kirwyn tensed with a jolt of fear but didn’t move. Jude’s expression was impossible to read with only a weak white moonlight highlighting the edges of him, making the shadows seem twice as dense. Jude moved away and a candle flared, fear blossoming in Kirwyn’s stomach as Jude looked back at him.

Unusually hesitant, Jude sat slowly down on the edge of the bed, the candle balanced between his thighs. He was less threatening seated, the flickering light making his face look older and tired, but Kirwyn still felt trapped by him; the bed was in front, the wall behind and Jude practically guarding the passage between the two.

“What were you dreaming of?” Kirwyn drew himself back to the present with an effort,

“Falling.” He said, only just managing to bite off a ‘milord’, knowing that Jude didn’t like it, knowing that he didn’t know why, exactly. Jude gave him a heavy look, his brow furrowed,

“That was all?” He said. Kirwyn swallowed and gave a more honest answer,

“Being trapped.” His gaze flickered to the door and Jude turned to follow where he was looking before turning back to Kirwyn. His silence spoke of tiredness, or indecision, or something besides that Kirwyn couldn’t guess at. Kirwyn decided an apology might be expected of him, for being troublesome, however unintended his behavior had been, “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

“Your wailing could wake the dead.” Jude responded flatly and Kirwyn cringed. He had nothing to say to that and so stayed silent. A moment passed tensely, “Come back to bed.” Jude said, standing to extinguish the candle, throwing the room back into darkness, and climbing back into the bed with a creak of old wood and a hollow cough.

Kirwyn mechanically got to his feet, better not to make them wait, and slipped back under the covers, shivering as the cold air of Jude’s room moved sluggishly over the damp, feverish skin of his neck.

“You’re cold.” Jude’s quiet voice broke the silence and Kirwyn tensed. He felt Jude move towards him, a fleeting hand on his shoulder over the top of the covers and he froze, trembling like an animal, “I won’t burn you.” Jude promised softly and, when Kirwyn didn’t reply, Jude moved closer again. Kirwyn was at the edge of the bed and he closed his eyes briefly, dragging the pieces of himself together. He forced himself still. He felt Jude’s arm move over his waist, drawing them together, Jude’s chest pressing against Kirwyn’s bare back. Kirwyn was shaking, trying to stop, but Jude either took it for cold or didn’t care. The Islander’s arms and legs were covered by his thin bed-clothes, only his bare hands might have burned Kirwyn and he kept them away from Kirwyn. “Easy,” Jude said, his breath hot on Kirwyn’s bare shoulder, “Are you warmer?” Kirwyn forced a reply out between hitched, panicked breaths,

“Yes.” And it was true; Jude’s body heat was like a fire and even as Kirwyn’s brain sang _trapped, trapped, danger,_ his body relaxed into Jude’s hold.

“Good.” A rumble in Jude’s chest and Kirwyn shuddered, feeling Jude draw him closer in response. It was wrong, perverse, but for a short while, when he forgot where he was, Kirwyn’s fear subsided and he felt safe.

Kirwyn felt Jude fall asleep before he did; with the Islander relaxed fully against him, the arm over Kirwyn’s side went slack and his breathing deepened. Kirwyn was more alert than he’d been most of the day and his head was spinning. He couldn’t see Jude’s arm in the dark but he could feel it, hot through the thin material of Jude’s sleeve.

Kirwyn lay awake for some time and he felt Jude’s temperature drop fairly rapidly. He still ran hot, hotter than Kirwyn would have been ever if feverish, like when he was barely out of childhood and he fell to a fever so bad that he feared he would die.

Kirwyn considered trying to slip free of Jude, finding a weapon and embedding it up to the hilt in Jude’s back. But he dismissed it. Jude’s family would have had him hunted and probably tortured before being executed. Besides, to act so treacherously would only confirm Arete’s hatred of the Helveltii and sentence his people to the death that Arete craved for them. He wondered if she had reason to, or if she hated them simply because they were not Islanders.

Kirwyn’s thoughts flitted about until he was sick of them. He felt Jude shift behind him, pressing his knees up into the backs of Kirwyn’s. Kirwyn’s sleep, when he found it, was restless and he descended quickly into his dreams again.

He was in the house of a woman, one of the wives of his father’s friends. He was sat on the dirt floor in the corner, waiting for his father to emerge from the other room. The woman was stood on the other side of the room staring at him unblinkingly. Then the light from the small side window dropped away suddenly as if the sun’s fire had been doused and the woman was transformed to shadows. Kirwyn shuddered at a sudden chill, realizing, even as he looked, that it was not a woman he’d barely known who was made of shadows but a man he’d known too well. The man, too, was staring.

“Boy, you’ve been bad again, haven’t you?” The man said, his voice thin. Kirwyn saw him approach through the shadows and found himself in the man’s workshop. “Hands on the side. Will you ever learn, boy?” The forge fire was roaring furiously and the blaring heat seared the skin of Kirwyn’s face, “Hands on the side, boy.” The man, lit hellishly by the fire, was stood close by on his left, and then on his right. Kirwyn was pushed back, “Don’t you ever learn?” He felt a wall at his back and then the wall dissolved and he was laid out in the dust of the plains. The blacksmith grinned down at him, “Again, Kirwyn?” Kirwyn was bound to the ground with deep pegs and tight rope and the sun looked down and burned him with shame, “Again? When will you learn? Haven’t I made you a man yet?” Kirwyn screamed, screamed for anyone to let him go. Heat seared his skin, ties at his wrist and feet binding him and he thrashed against them and screamed. Jude stirred groggily behind him. Fear tumbled from Kirwyn mouth, the arm around his waist tightening as he struggled,

“Get off get off get off let go of me, you bastard.” Jude’s grip was strong over Kirwyn’s stomach and Kirwyn wailed, even as Jude came fully into wakefulness,

“Calm down, stop it. What is wrong with you? Stop wailing, for the gods sakes.” Kirwyn broke into whimpers, still trying to pry himself from Jude’s hold,

“Please,” he said, breathless, his grip on reality unfocused, “please please.”

“Alright, alright,” Jude eased his arm away and Kirwyn fell forward onto his stomach but didn’t move any further, only pressed his face to the mattress and shook. Jude was muttering, “Goddammit, Kirwyn, what the hell is this? Was it me? Is it my fault?” Kirwyn wasn’t sure that Jude was even talking to him but he shook his head, still hiding his face like a child. Jude was silent for a minute whilst Kirwyn gathered himself, “Sit up.” He said, though it was gentle, “Up, Kirwyn, come on, you can’t breathe right like that.” Kirwyn lifted himself up awkwardly, angling his face away from Jude though it was useless. Jude had already seen him at his weakest. Repeatedly. “Twice in one night?” Jude said wearily and Kirwyn hunched his shoulders defensively, _fuck up_ , his thoughts hissed at him bitterly,

“I’m sorry.” He said, his voice hoarse. Jude was silent and Kirwyn felt the tears slip down his cheeks, hanging off his jaw and falling to the mattress. He made no sound,

“You’re crying.” Jude’s voice was quiet and Kirwyn felt a hand on his shoulder, turning him carefully towards Jude. He let himself be manipulated, limp as a doll when Jude released him. “Who did this?” Jude said, and Kirwyn could feel the Islander’s eyes on his scars. Jude repeated himself when Kirwyn didn’t answer, “Who did this to you?”

“A man.” Kirwyn said, his throat tight and sore from screaming. He tried to clear it and winced. Jude was unsatisfied and the Islander’s frustration tired Kirwyn. _Why do you care?_ He wanted to say. _Leave me to my hell._

“One of your people?”

“No.”

“An Islander?”

“No.”

“Who?” Jude barked. Spit flecked Kirwyn’s cheek but he didn’t flinch,

“No-one.” He said, exhausted, “Everyone.” Jude growled and Kirwyn twitched then, his heart stuttering wearily,

“Tell me.”

“A blacksmith. Indrid. Just a man who looked where others ignored and hid his evil there.”

“Don’t speak like that.” Jude said, his burning hands clamped around Kirwyn’s arms, “wake up.” Jude shook him, “You’re not there anymore.” Kirwyn lifted his eyes and saw Indrid in Jude’s fiery eyes, when the Islander’s jaw twitched,

“I’m still there. He was any man.” Kirwyn said, “He was you and me and a god and a devil.”

“Insolent.” Jude said coldly, though he seemed unnerved, “Don’t compare me to the bastard who fucked you up. I’m not him.” Kirwyn gritted his teeth,

“My sincere apologies.” Kirwyn spat, “Milord.” Jude snarled at the disrespect in Kirwyn’s tone but Kirwyn didn’t move and Jude jerked forwards suddenly, pressing his mouth to Kirwyn’s with force. Kirwyn pulled back, startled and then outraged, biting down viciously on Jude’s lip. Jude made a noise of pain and jerked away, touching his lip and smearing blood on his finger. He looked up to stare at Kirwyn, bewildered, and Kirwyn stared back.

“Get out.” Jude said. He didn’t say it again but it hung in the air like a stone. Kirwyn climbed off the bed and took up the clothes Calem had given him to wear to the feast, “Kirwyn-” Jude started but Kirwyn ignored him, opening the door and stepping out. There was a guard outside who looked up, startled, when Kirwyn emerged, before his face settled into knowing indifference. Kirwyn’s lip twitched in distaste and he stalked away down the corridor, pausing to pull on his trousers once he was out of the guard’s line of sight. He hadn’t picked up his shirt and he felt vulnerable with his skin on display, but there was nothing to be done about it. He headed for the kitchens, hoping that they would all be asleep and he could enter unnoticed.

When he reached the stairs that led up to the rooms lined with beds, Kirwyn hesitated. He didn’t trust himself not to wake screaming with another nightmare, though it was close to dawn now, and he didn’t want to wake the other servers. They would not thank him for it.

He sat down on the bottom stair and put his head to the wall. It was warm enough, here, the kitchen fire still emitting a steady, simmering heat and Kirwyn slipped into a doze, slumped against the wall.

“Heavens above! What the hell are you doing there, Helveltii?” Kirwyn woke, blinking blearily up at Calem, stood over him on the stairs. The man nudged him in the ribs and Kirwyn got unsteadily to his feet. There were other servers in the kitchen who had stopped to turn and stare at him, who must have come down the stairs past him and seen him sleeping. Seen, too, his back and his scars, Kirwyn thought bitterly when he realized his chest was bare and remembered that he was missing a shirt.

Calem seemed to be waiting for an answer, still, and though his arms were folded sternly, his eyes were soft,

“I came in late. I didn’t wish to disturb you.” Kirwyn clenched his jaw against the stares and looked away, shifting his weight uneasily between his feet.

“Fine.” Calem said, his brow furrowed, “But next time come up and take a bed. You can wash over there,” he pointed through to a side room that Kirwyn hadn’t previously noticed, “there’s water and soap. Then fetch a shirt from upstairs, and work trousers, instead of these dress ones.” Kirwyn nodded warily,

“Thank you.” He said. Calem grunted in acknowledgment. Kirwyn turned away to wash, his shoulders stiff against the thick silence as he bared his back to the other servers. He felt the crawl of their horror and hated it.

“Back to work.” Kirwyn heard Calem order, though his voice was uneven, “Get along.” Kirwyn washed quickly, fleeing upstairs to find a shirt as soon as his pride would allow him to. Once he had dug a plain work shirt and similar trousers from the chest, he emptied his bladder into one of the available buckets before taking a moment to himself to tease the stubborn knots from his hair and weave sections of it into a new pattern that left more of his hair loose, shielding his face but leaving his vision clear.

“Clever fingers.” A male voice said behind him and Kirwyn twisted around, finding a young, lissome boy stood in front of him, eyeing him curiously, “Is your hair really that colour?” Kirwyn couldn’t immediately summon an answer so tied off the plait instead with the bit of string he always used.

“Yes.” Kirwyn said finally. The boy looked doubtful,

“Is it truly?” He said, “It looks very odd.” Kirwyn raised his eyebrows but said nothing. The boy sighed,

“I’m Alisc.” He said, “What’s your name?” Kirwyn shrugged and Alisc gave him an incredulous stair, “You must have a name.” He said, aghast at the idea. Kirwyn smirked,

“In my culture,” he said, cocking his head and making his eyes go cold, “if you tell someone your name, then you must kill them, cut out their heart and eat it, or face dishonor.” The boy’s eyes were like two full moons, his mouth slightly open. Kirwyn’s smirk widened, “they’re chewy,” he said, “men’s hearts. The blood stains your hair red, and it never washes out.”

“Never?” The boy asked. Kirwyn nodded seriously,

“Never. Do you still want to know my name?” The boy shook his head very fast, his cheeks pale,

“No, don’t tell me!” He said quickly, looking towards the door, “It’s time for breakfast!” He called over his shoulder as he scurried out of the room. Kirwyn’s smile fell away as he followed, thinking of the stares he would receive. But the boy’s furtive, wide-eyed looks across the breakfast table made Kirwyn’s lips twitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Kirwyn, my baby. He just wants a hug. But not from Jude. Hope you enjoyed! Please comment and let me know!


	10. Speak No Evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude's still hiding his marks but there's something coming, whether Jude continues to deny it or not, and he can't hide forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a longer update. Hope you enjoy and comments are love!

_Kirwyn_

 

“You’ll be ill if you eat like that.” Kirwyn realised that conversation had fallen away and that Calem was addressing him. He lifted his head to find several heads tilted in his direction, eyeing him with sidelong curiosity. Kirwyn glared at each of them and their gazes dropped away, all but Calem’s, who gave Kirwyn a bemused look. “Just a word of warning.” He said. Kirwyn swallowed the lump of food in his mouth, though he found that his appetite had dropped suddenly away,

“I hear you.” He said, his voice rough from his screaming. He had to fight the heat rushing to his face when his words prompted almost every head at the table to turn in his direction and he knew what they would assume when they heard the soreness in his throat. There was a frown between Calem’s brows as he watched Kirwyn wipe his fingers on his tunic, pushing away his plate with its small pile of bones and gristle, meat leftover from last night’s feast, and though Kirwyn still took the worst of it, it had tasted good, especially since he’d eaten by his own hand.

“They’re seated. Food’s ready.” The cook relayed a younger server’s words and Calem got to his feet, nodding to Kirwyn to go to the hall with the other servers, only a fraction of what had been a veritable army the previous night. Kirwyn felt nausea rise in him, then, and he felt eyes on him as he got to his feet. He slid his plate onto the side and trailed after the others, under the kitchen threshold and back into the wolves’ den.

The atmosphere seemed subdued when Kirwyn went to pour watered-down wine into Jude’s cup. Jude’s brother and mother were there; Serin looked lethargic and bored, Arete regal. There were scarce others. The guests from last night had mostly dispersed, only a few had stayed and they were slumped in their seats like abandoned puppets. Jude seemed unaffected, his gaze as sharply alert as it ever was. Just as in camp, he ate like a starved man but he paused when Kirwyn came behind him to pour his drink. Kirwyn saw Jude’s greased fingers twitch towards Kirwyn as if to take his arm and Kirwyn fought not to react. Jude returned to his food and Kirwyn backed smoothly away, his heart hammering.

After the diners had eaten and drunk, they seemed to rouse themselves somewhat and Kirwyn tried to ignore the lewd jokes levelled at him, the guests wondering loudly whether he walked a little stiff, whether he looked tired. Jude smirked in response to their jibes but didn’t deny it and this made the diners laugh. Kirwyn’s blood thumped in his ears when Jude drowned his cup and knocked it twice on the table, summoning Kirwyn to his side,

“He’s definitely sore.” A diner smirked as Kirwyn came over to fill Jude’s cup. If he walked stiffly, Kirwyn thought acerbically, it was from sleeping on the servants’ stairs.

Jude had reclined back in his seat to look at Kirwyn fully and blood rose in Kirwyn’s face under his gaze. Someone whistled. Kirwyn knew that Arete was smiling haughtily, watching the scene with amusement. Kirwyn felt ill,

“Shouldn’t play with your food.” Serin said, Kirwyn shivering as a cool draft dried the sweat on his skin as he poured wine into Jude’s cup. He froze when Jude’s hand closed around his cloth-covered forearm, Jude’s heat radiating through the fabric.

“Cold, Kirwyn?” Jude drawled with a wicked tilt to his mouth. Anger flared in Kirwyn and made his answer sharp,

“No, milord.” Jude’s mischievousness hardened,

“I think you are.” He said, pulling Kirwyn towards him. A server came to take the wine jug from Kirwyn’s hand and he relinquished it, his eyes on Jude. Kirwyn, anger making his reckless, decided to change tact. He eyed Jude with a slight smile, knowing that there was still a flush on his cheeks, and voluntarily went to his knees,

“I am what you wish me to be, milord.” He said, exaggerating the roughness of his tone. He saw a flash of mistrust cross Jude’s handsome features and took a moment to notice how carefully Jude was covering his skin, dressed as he was in a shirt done up to the neck and rough trousers. His sleeves hung loose at his ashy forearms but his furs were drawn tight around his neck so that all skin below his jaw was concealed. Kirwyn cocked his head and slid his hand up Jude’s thigh, “I was warm enough last night, milord.” His voice was a mock whisper but clearly audible. Serin laughed. Arete did not.

“You don’t know the meaning of heat, slave.” He captured Kirwyn’s hand against his thigh for a brief, painful second, burning it, before he allowed Kirwyn to withdraw. Kirwyn allowed a muscle to twitch at his jaw and knew that Jude saw it. He was still providing a show, though, so he brought his stinging hand to his mouth and sucked a finger in between his lips. There was a surprised laugh from one of the diners and Jude raised an eyebrow. He took a bit of food from his plate, “Have I neglected you?” Jude said, “So hungry you’d eat your own fingers? How barbarian.” Kirwyn removed his finger from his mouth and took the food from Jude’s fingers, smiling as if they shared a secret, which they did, though Jude wasn’t to know. Kirwyn could see that it unnerved Jude,

“I don’t bite, milord.” He said, before adding, “Unless it would please you.” A devilish grin twitched on Jude’s face, though his eyes looked oddly old and deeply tired for a fleeting moment,

“Needy thing.” Jude said, turning away from Kirwyn, indicating that their exchange was over. Kirwyn was glad. His nerves were frayed and he knew he was trembling. His behavior had been unwise, he knew, and now that his anger had passed, he feared the consequences. Jude went to feed him again but Kirwyn pulled away minutely and Jude, after a pause, lifted the meat up and ate it himself. He didn’t offer it again and Kirwyn was relieved since he doubted he could have stomached it.

Towards the end of breakfast, Kirwyn felt Jude’s hand rest lightly on the top of his head, moving down to finger the fresh braids Kirwyn had woven in. Kirwyn held himself stiffly and Jude put a light pressure on the side of his head,

“If you’re going to play,” Jude murmured, “Then play, Kirwyn.” Kirwyn reluctantly allowed the pressure of Jude’s fingers push his head to rest against the hard flesh of Jude’s thigh, forcing the taut muscles in his neck to relax, a mockery of contentment with Jude’s burning fingers resting atop his head as one might pet a favored hound. It was demeaning.

Breakfast passed mercifully quickly but Kirwyn’s lower legs were still entirely numb by the time the guests were beginning to depart, thanking Jude for his hospitality and imparting gifts of great value. Kirwyn carefully got his weak legs under him when Jude stood but was offhandedly dismissed. He declined his head awkwardly in a show of respect and returned to the kitchen.

There, Kirwyn was assigned work, helping with the enormous task of clearing up after the feast the previous night. It was dull, tiring work, Kirwyn set the grueling task of bringing water up from the well, carrying it to the kitchen, changing it for used water and taking that down to deposit in the moat. Kirwyn grunted as he lugged more buckets up the stairs, gritting his teeth against the ache along his back and shoulders as others passed by him and he had to force himself to appear unaffected. Helveltii were strong, always strong. _Have you learnt yet?_ Kirwyn had to pause at the top of the stairs, his arm cramping agonisingly. He checked that he was alone before touching his hand to the cold wall, carefully stretching out the disgruntled muscles in his arm. He heard footsteps and picked up the buckets once more, moving off as if he’d never ceased.

The midday meal was good; fresh bread with left-over meat and watered-down wine. Kirwyn was generally left alone, spoken to only when he was being directed to his tasks. He preferred it that way.

Later, when Kirwyn was helping with preparations for dinner, a runner came into the kitchen and made a beeline for Calem.

Kirwyn caught the sound of his name in their interchange and lifted his head from where he was skinning and gutting rabbits. The runner noticed Kirwyn look up and his eyes widened to see the bloody knife in Kirwyn’s hand, though he didn’t question Calem’s judgement.

When Calem beckoned, Kirwyn put the knife down and cleaned his bloody hands on a rag before coming over,

“Fetch a tunic and cloak from upstairs.” Calem said and, unease curling in his gut, Kirwyn did as he was told. The runner was shifting from foot to foot when Kirwyn returned downstairs and looked tensed to bolt when Kirwyn came to stand within a couple of yards of the young man. Kirwyn was aware of people’s attention on his back but when he glanced over only one would meet his eye, and only then for a moment. She was a woman around his age who seemed to be apprenticed to the cook and whose face was flushed from the oven heat. There was nothing malicious in her curiosity and she looked shyly away after a moment. Kirwyn found himself looking at the back of her head, her hair a glowing yellow, after she had turned away.

“Better be off, Helveltii.” Calem prompted and Kirwyn gave him a nod of assent, though his lips were pressed tight with displeasure. The runner was already starting away and, with his cloak tracing the sway of his walk, Kirwyn followed after the man.

“Where are you headed?” The runner glanced at him sidelong,

“The stables.” He said. A frown passed over Kirwyn brow before he smoothed it away and followed in silence, feeling the strange press of the foreign boots across his feet. He missed being able to feel the ruts of the dirt under his feet but was accustomed enough to wearing boots to not overly mind it.

Kirwyn focused, then, on the route the runner was leading him in taking him to the stables and they reached their destination soon enough, since the runner walked fiercely fast. Once there Kirwyn was told firmly to _wait_ _here_ and left alone. His breath misted on the cool air with the afternoon sun resting heavily on the clouded sky, dull and tired. He kept his head proudly high and tried to appear as if he did not feel threatened by the stablemen pausing at their work to eye him with wary curiosity as well as open dislike. The horses stabled here were expensive beasts, arrogant and temperamental, Kirwyn thought, looking at their large, aristocratic heads. Their dark eyes seemed cold and unapprovingly of him and when the one nearest to him blew a loud, wet noise through its nostrils, producing a cloud of steam, Kirwyn flinched.

“Jumping at shadows, are we?” Kirwyn heard Jude’s voice, amused, from off to his left and twisted around to face him, startled. Aware of the eyes on them, he made sure to bow deeply,

“I hope you are well, milord.” He said, avoiding Jude’s comment. Jude didn’t deign to respond. He was wearing only a light cloak over his shirt, more suitable to spring than the steady descent into winter, but Kirwyn assumed that the man’s Devil’s hands kept him comfortably warm.

It surprised Kirwyn that Jude’s style of clothing had remained, though cleaner, remarkably similar as when he had been on the march with his army. As a lord, and, presumably, son to the Overlord of the castle, Kirwyn had expected Jude to wear clothes similar to the exquisite quality of his brother’s fine clothes once in his own home but Jude flouted convention and neglected to wear even a formal tunic over his shirt. Jude still had his furs draw close around his neck, though, which looked faintly odd over the top of his thin shirt. No-one, except perhaps his immediate family, would have dared told him so. He was still hiding it, Kirwyn thought perplexedly, unsure why Jude would choose to disguise the spread of his Devil’s hands.

Jude was looking Kirwyn over as Kirwyn was him, though he did it more brazenly,

“Slave, you look tired.” He said after a moment. If he was looking for a reaction, Kirwyn didn’t give it to him, only gave him a sycophantic apology, biting back a smirk when Jude narrowed his eyes. After a moment, Jude waved Kirwyn away with a flick of wrist, “Fetch your horse.” He ordered and Kirwyn’s eyebrows rose when Jude strode away without another word. At a loss, Kirwyn moved in the direction Jude had vaguely gestured to, coming to an abrupt halt when one of the stable staff stopped work to stare at him. Those eyes; sky-blue and haunting. Kirwyn choked back memories that never failed to send his heart skittering and shuddered.

“Are you alright?” Kirwyn nodded rigidly at the man. His eyes were a different shade, Kirwyn realised. One of them was truly more green than blue and they were warmer, too. Kirwyn steadied himself,

“Milord said I was to fetch my horse.” Kirwyn said and then, when the man only stared at him blankly, he snapped, “Forget it.”

“Who are you?” It was a reasonable question and despite his frustration, Kirwyn made himself paused,

“I am Kirwyn.” He said, “Milord’s- slave.” His throat constricted on the word and he had to spit it out. The man was leaning on the long, wooden fork in his hands and staring at Kirwyn unabashed, though he seemed no closer to offering Kirwyn help. Kirwyn scowled through his unease,

“You’re the Helveltii?” Kirwyn disliked being referred to as such but he nodded curtly,

“Yes.” The stableman was still staring as if Kirwyn was a strange creature that might evaporate into the ether, but he set the forked tool aside and came out of the stable to motion towards the end of the stable block,

“Your horse is over there. The mean-looking one, black as pitch. He’s been readied for you.” Kirwyn gave a terse nod of thanks though his stomach was sinking, and found, at the end of the row of stalls, the horse Falkirk had picked out for him. His felt his heart uptick at the prospect of riding the creature again but he let himself into the stall and checked the saddle ties under Demon’s belly. They were tight. Demon stamped his hoof with a huff of steam and Kirwyn looked into the horse’s black eye with heavy dislike. Demon flicked his ears.

“Kirwyn.” Jude’s sharp call made Kirwyn flinch and he looked over the stable door to see Jude approaching, mount in hand, “Make haste. We’re losing light.”

“Yes milord.” Kirwyn muttered, undoing the cord that tethered Demon to a ring in the wall and led him out of the stall. Jude was right, the light was beginning to sink from the sky and Kirwyn mounted smoothly, even as the horse sidestepped capriciously and Kirwyn set his mouth in a grim line,

“Relax,” Jude said, tall and perfectly collected atop his majestic horse, “You’re tense.” Kirwyn gave him an incredulous look and Jude’s lips split into a sudden, wolfish grin. He dug his spurs into his horse’s sides, bounding out of the stable yard with perfect grace while, spooked by the sudden movement of Jude’s horse, Demon pranced and fought Kirwyn’s hand. Frustrated, Kirwyn slammed his legs into Demon’s ribs and when the horse bolted forwards, Kirwyn was almost unseated by Demon’s sudden leap. He gathered Demon’s reins and forced him to slow, though the horse was putting the weight of his head against Kirwyn’s hands, making his fingers ache. Scowling, Kirwyn followed Jude, passing through the outer gate and clattering across the drawbridge, the sudden, hollow sound of hooves on wood sending Demon skittering again. Kirwyn sent a nervous glance down into the black waters of the moat and tried to keep Demon straight.

Once off the drawbridge, there was a road that Kirwyn guessed led down to a village or town, but uphill was open moorland and Jude nudged his horse into a loping canter, leaving Kirwyn to follow, Demon deciding suddenly that he didn’t want to move, locking his front legs. Kirwyn could have screamed at the horse in frustration but he controlled himself and let the reins slide through his fingers. The moment that Demon had his head, he took off and Kirwyn guided them, best he could, in the direction Jude had gone.

Jude was just over the crest of the hill, waiting for him with a smirk,

“Having trouble?” He said as Kirwyn approached. Kirwyn couldn’t have halted Demon if he’d tried and, truly, he didn’t try terribly hard. They skidded past Jude at speed and Kirwyn allowed himself a spark of vindictive pleasure. Jude caught Kirwyn up quickly enough, looking amused as he drew his horse alongside. They rode like that for some time, pausing atop a ridge to draw breath.

“You ride well.” Jude said finally, colour flushed along the line of his cheekbones for perhaps the first time. He looked remarkably at ease and that irked Kirwyn, though it shouldn’t have. Kirwyn stiffened at the comment and didn’t look at Jude.

“Thank you milord.” Kirwyn said formally. Jude’s manner sobered and Kirwyn looked over, watching Jude’s shifting expression; anger, unease and frustration warring on his features almost too rapidly for Kirwyn to catch. He saw Jude’s hand clench around his horse’s reins but, still, he didn’t speak, only looked out at the horizon,

“We should head back.” He said, sounding suddenly unhappy. Kirwyn hesitated, wanting, perversely, to know what Jude had been thinking. Kirwyn rationalised that if Jude was angry with him it would be better to know now, rather than delay it.

“Milord, if I may ask, have I displeased you?” Jude’s attention jerked towards Kirwyn and Kirwyn regretted speaking. There was a pause where Kirwyn felt the true whip of the wind, the sweat of the ride chilling him

“Yes.” Jude said. It wasn’t the cold that made Kirwyn shiver, then, but the prospect of Jude punishing him. _I will not beg_ , he told himself sternly, _I will not_. “But I don’t mind.” Kirwyn turned to Jude, stunned, and Jude looked back at him with something honest in his sharp, dark face, “I’ve scared you again.” He said, turning away, “I didn’t intend to.” Kirwyn opened his mouth to deny it before closing it again. He started again, hesitantly,

“Milord,” He couldn’t speak and ducked his head. Jude moved his horse closer but Demon shifted irritably under Kirwyn, the wind hissing past their ears. Kirwyn shivered again, this time from cold. He thought he heard Jude sigh but the Islander silently went to wheel his horse back towards the castle. He looked to Kirwyn once more before pushing his horse into a fluid canter, moving effortlessly. There was power evident in both of them and Kirwyn thought again how easily the pair melded into their wild surroundings. To see them in the smoke and clash of battle would be to witness a vision of the wilderness at its most brutal, amongst the false, petty cruelty of men. Kirwyn knew that if he’d seen them when the Helveltii settlement was being raided, he would remember. The fact that he hadn’t gave him scant comfort; they had still been Jude’s soldiers, acting under his orders.

Kirwyn rested a moment longer, taking one last look at the raw, rough spread of the dusky moor. Then he turned Demon, some of the horse’s fire dampened, to follow Jude back to his captivity.

Kirwyn came alongside outside the gate and they moved across the drawbridge together in silence, Jude pulling slightly ahead as they moved into the stable yard. The Islander dismounted smoothly and Kirwyn followed him, his legs complaining sharply of their misuse as he landed heavily on his feet. Jude didn’t give Kirwyn a backwards glance as he handed his horse over to a waiting stableman and strode back towards the castle, guards falling into step behind him as they escorted him back to the main keep. Kirwyn ran a hand down Demon’s damp neck, pushing his fingers under the horse’s saddle to warm his own, chilled fingers. Demon didn’t seem to mind. Kirwyn winced when he walked the horse over to its stable.

“I can do that for you.” The blue-eyed stableman came over as Kirwyn was unfastening Demon’s saddle and Kirwyn handed over the heavy saddle when the stableman offered but returned to Demon to remove the horse’s simple but well-crafted, leather bridle. It was sticky and stained with Demon’s sweat around the bit. “I can do that.” The man stepped forwards again and Kirwyn reluctantly handed over the bridle and stepped out of the stall, watching with a glint of jealousy as the stableman began to brush Demon down with long, efficient strokes. The stableman paused in his work to turn to Kirwyn, looking uncertain.

He looked to be about to speak when Kirwyn turned away, moving through the growing darkness towards the inner gate leading to the castle.

“Hold up.” The guards halted Kirwyn and insisted on grasping his jaw and holding his face up to the lantern he was holding, “Name?” One barked and Kirwyn jerked his chin free of the man’s thick fingers,

“Kirwyn.” When the guard looked like he might delay Kirwyn further, Kirwyn pointedly added, “Milord won’t be pleased if I’m not there at dinner.” The guard’s partner gestured for Kirwyn to be let through and the gates parted with a groan and screech of tired wood.

“It’s fucking freezing.” Kirwyn heard one of them mutter as he passed through.

Kirwyn arrived at the kitchens in time for Calem to shoo him upstairs with orders to change and wash his face, before he was ushered back out to the great hall.

Dinner went quietly enough, Jude paying him no more attention than he did any other server, so that Kirwyn could truly feel the ache in his legs and his stomach. Still, he was relieved that Jude didn’t call Kirwyn to his side. Serin was conspicuously absent and there seemed to be less tension in the air because of it.

“Where did you go this afternoon, Jude?” Arete, Jude’s mother, asked. Jude, eating with his usual ferocity, looked up from his plate of game meat and bread,

“Riding on the moors.” Jude’s accent rolled the ‘r’ and Kirwyn saw Arete’s face twitch in displeasure, either at his choice of past-time or his manner of speaking, rough at it was. “And you, mother?” Jude seemed interested,

“I was overseeing the meat salting for winter.” Jude looked unconvinced but didn’t confront her, saying only,

“I intend to hunt tomorrow.” Arete inclined her head,

“I’m sure we would all be grateful for it.” Jude returned to his food, “You should be wary of snowfall before long.” Jude acknowledged her warning with a grunt and the pair ate in silence. Serin’s absence wasn’t raised.

Kirwyn was working in the kitchen, later, while the cook was preparing the servants’ dinner when a hush fell over the kitchen.

“How may we help you, milord?” The cook said, her drawling words similar to Jude’s. Kirwyn dried his hands, smoothed his expression to blankness before he turned around.

“Kirwyn.” Jude summoned him, unabashed and cold, in front of the servers and Kirwyn knew Jude was aware how much he hated it, being called to heel like a _dog_. Furious, Kirwyn forced himself to walk over, Jude striding away before Kirwyn had even reached him, as if Kirwyn wasn’t even worth waiting at the door for.

Following Jude down the corridor, Kirwyn heard the mutters that followed their departure, though he couldn’t make out the words and his face burned. He said nothing as Jude took them up to his rooms, a sick drop of his stomach reminding him of what happened the last time he was here. Nothing that Kirwyn had expected, dreaded, had come to pass, then, and yet Jude had seen Kirwyn with his defenses laid low and the memory of that _rawness_ grated on Kirwyn.

There was a different guard attending the door, inclining his head to Jude as they passed inside, but Kirwyn came to a stop, recalling the other guard’s smirk in vivid detail. Jude’s hand closed around Kirwyn’s arm when he didn’t move and tugged him inside. The door was shut with a forceful thud. It was dim inside Jude’s rooms and Kirwyn’s eyes could make out little.

“Stop thinking.” Jude ordered.

“What do you want,” Kirwyn gritted his teeth against the ‘milord’ that tried to slip out his throat. Was it defiance that prompted it, or did he truly believe this animal deserved his respect?

“Go and lie down.” Jude’s coldness infuriated Kirwyn and he didn’t move from where Jude had dragged him to.

“ _What do you want_ ,” He demanded. Jude turned on him, a sudden fury in his eyes,

“Do as you’re told.” Every word punched a hole in Kirwyn bravado and Kirwyn moved to the far side of the bed by touch and sat down, his back to Jude. His fingers curled into the mattress. He heard Jude move away, enter another room and lock the door. _Still hiding_ , Kirwyn thought humorlessly, his shoulders rolling forwards. He ran his hands through his hair and took a series of uneven breaths, waiting for Jude to return.

It wasn’t long, his footsteps creaking across the floor, the bed shifting with a sigh as it accepted Jude’s weight.

“Kirwyn,” Jude’s tone was marginally softer, “Come lie down.” An unsteady breath and Kirwyn did so, reclining on his back, “Good.” Kirwyn shivered at the praise, unexpected as it was. He locked his jaw, Jude shifting beside him to find a more comfortable position. Kirwyn wondered to find that he wasn’t panicking, that he expected the deepening of Jude’s breathing as the Islander descended into sleep, nothing more. And it happened quickly, Jude snuffling quietly as he softened into the mattress.

Kirwyn lay awake, his mind twisting over in his head. He must have fallen asleep whilst he was tumbling miscellaneous thoughts around his head because he awoke to the sound of knocking on the door. Struggling sleepily up to seated, Kirwyn glanced around to find that early dawn was breaking through. He’d slept the whole night-? Another series of knocks and Kirwyn looked over to the door,

“Milord, your Lady mother to see you.” Jude made a noise of discontent by Kirwyn’s hip and Kirwyn tensed to realise that the warm weight over his calf wasn’t the rucked blankets, but Jude’s leg, thrown over him possessively.

Jude roused himself, Kirwyn wincing at the dramatic rise in Jude’s body temperature, and moved to swing his legs over the side of the bed. He didn’t look at Kirwyn, only ran a tired hand through his hand,

“Milord-” The guard sounded nervous, his voice muffled through the thick wood,

“Enter.” Jude said gruffly, barely awake. Kirwyn realised, even as Jude was speaking, that the spread of Jude’s Devil’s hands was on show. There were black bands on either side of Jude’s neck like smears of charcoal-coated fingertips, rising above the neckline of his shirt, though it was fastened tightly. Kirwyn faltered to realise just how far it had spread. How much more of Jude’s skin would it claim?

“Jude-” Kirwyn’s warning, too late, was urgent and Jude turned to him, hearing something of the earnestness in Kirwyn’s tone and Kirwyn indicated Jude’s neck with wide eyes as the door’s latch was lifted. A flash of terrible panic on Jude’s face and then Jude was on top of Kirwyn, crushing the breath out of him with his sudden lunge, the bed creaking complainingly under them. Kirwyn was too shocked to make a noise, only squirming weakly even as Jude dragged the blanket up over the top of them; concealing the black bands on his neck. Kirwyn made an embarrassing noise in panic when Jude didn’t get off him, the Islander’s heat and weight pressing down, and Jude glanced down as Arete entered. Jude lifted his weight slightly so that he was no longer pressed flush against Kirwyn and Kirwyn drew a strangled breath.

“I can see that you are occupied,” Arete said, sounding irritated. Kirwyn stared blankly up over Jude’s shoulder at the ceiling. He took a handful of the blankets and clenched his fist, focusing on the tight, thick weave. “But there has been a development that we must discuss. In private.”

“Speak.” Jude grunted, his face pressing its way into Kirwyn’s collarbone. Jude’s heated skin seared and Kirwyn tried to shift away but couldn’t manage it with Jude’s knees either side of his thighs. He pressed his cheek to the mattress and tried not to think about the last time he’d been pinned like this.

“Not with the Helveltii present.” Arete insisted, sounding increasing peeved. Kirwyn could nearly hear her thoughts, unfocused as he was on their conversation, _I deserve more respect than this._

“Speak.” Jude growled, lifting his head from Kirwyn’s neck like a lion interrupted while making a meal of its kill. Kirwyn knew then that Jude was shaken, that he would speak to his mother like this. Had he intended to hide his marks forever, and from his family? Kirwyn lay like a doll and berated himself for warning Jude; if Arete had seen Jude’s marks then Jude’s secret may have been forced public. Now, though, Jude knew that Kirwyn had seen what he had worked hard to conceal and that Kirwyn knew Jude wanted it kept hidden and, if Kirwyn was guessing correctly at Jude’s thought patterns, he would be thinking how he could silence Kirwyn. As if reading Kirwyn’s thoughts, Jude, sliding further under the blankets to nip at Kirwyn’s chest, said, so quietly that Kirwyn felt the breath of the words on his skin more than he heard them, “Do not speak.” Kirwyn’s lip twitched at the small, sharp pain of Jude’s teeth on his skin but said nothing.

“Jude.” Arete hissed, while Jude’s head was beneath the covers, ‘For heavens sake, stop behaving like a pig in rut. Dismiss your traitorous whore so that we may speak.” Kirwyn felt Jude’s tension but a moment passed before Jude acted, lifting himself up so that his elbows were either side of Kirwyn’s neck, his chest pressing against Kirwyn’s, and he could turn to look at his mother. He said nothing but, though it wasn’t directed at him, Kirwyn quailed to see the cold resentment on Jude’s face. It clearly had an effect on Arete, too, though she wasn’t in Kirwyn line of sight, because he heard her inhale from across the room, “Very well.” She said crisply, “You father has deteriorated further. His marks-”

“This isn’t news.” Jude snapped, vibrating with a tension that Kirwyn could feel only because Jude was pressed against him, “We will not discuss this now.”

“We must.” Arete snapped back, taking a step forward with a creak of floorboards. Jude turned his head towards her to growl and Arete froze. She was afraid of her son, Kirwyn realised dully and filed the information away. Arete pressed on, “You will have your flaming soon and you’re not prepared.” Jude breathed huffed hot and sour on Kirwyn’s throat and Kirwyn tilted his head away. He hated this- forced intimacy, and Jude, too, was coiled with displeasure and not all of it was for show. There was nothing casual in Jude’s tiny adjustments of position, every one calculated and yet animal; marking his ownership over Kirwyn despite, or because of, his mother’s animosity. It eased a fraction of Kirwyn’s tension that Jude wasn’t finding pleasure in this and Jude must have noticed, as his eyes flickered down to meet Kirwyn’s for a fleeting moment,

“If it happens-” Jude started, turning back to his mother.

“When. It is inevitable, now.” Arete said.

“ _If_ it happens,” Jude’s voice rumbled in his chest, “then it happens. There is nothing to discuss.”

“You know that’s not true.” Jude didn’t respond and Arete’s tone sharpened, “Your sword! We’ve debated this back and forth but it is the truth.”

“I do not want to do this now.” Jude said,

“You _need_ a full-metal sword,” Arete said, “the one you have now will disintegrate if you try to use it during or after the flaming. And you need your father’s blessing. I am told that he has been asking persistently for you to visit.” Arete spoke like her mouth was full of glass and, from the half-snarl on Jude’s face, he hated the subject too, “It will be a thousand times more painful if you do not obtain his blessing.”

“I’m not seeing him.” Kirwyn felt like he shouldn’t be here, that this cryptic conversation was nevertheless deeply personal.

“A few minutes, nothing more-”

“No.”

“Don’t make me watch you suffer.” Jude was trembling with tension and radiating heat like an open oven. Kirwyn tried again to pull himself free but Jude refused to release him. Kirwyn was forced to lie there, sweating.

“It is my choice.” Jude said.

“I know.” Arete said, “And I am sorry to ask that you make it, but, for my sake as much as yours, visit him. Please.” Jude shuddered before he answered,

“Fine.”

“It must be soon-”

“I said fine!” Jude’s roar shocked Arete to silence and Kirwyn flinched. “I’ll take care of things.” Jude said in his normal tone, “I swear.”

“I know.” Arete said, with faith. She sighed genteelly and moved to depart. Kirwyn heard her pause at the door and the weight of his desire for her to leave felt like a hand crushing his chest. “You should kill him.” Arete said, “I don’t think you will, but that’s my advice.” Kirwyn knew she was referring to him but didn’t react and Jude was still. Arete took her leave without waiting for a response, the door closing quietly behind her.

Jude didn’t immediately release Kirwyn but eased away, rolling onto the other side of the bed. Kirwyn shuddered at the sudden, blissful rush of cool air, kicking the covers off him as he took several ragged breaths and tried to calm his fervent heart. He could hear Jude breathing beside him and fought back a wave of terror. Another one.

“Who have you told?” Jude said quietly. Kirwyn assumed Jude was referring to the Devil’s hands but he said nothing. Jude pushed himself onto his elbow to look down on Kirwyn and Kirwyn met his gaze briefly. “Who?”

“Who the fuck would I tell?” Kirwyn snapped. Jude’s anger rose to match Kirwyn’s,

“I don’t know,” he barked, “I’m sure someone would pay to know what I want kept hidden.”

“Never crossed my mind.” Kirwyn said scathingly, though in truth, it hadn’t. “What use have I for money?”

“What did they pay you in, then? Sex?” Kirwyn gave a choked laugh but didn’t reply. He knew Jude was about to move just before he did, snapping his hand forwards to grasp Kirwyn’s chin, or he would have done, if Kirwyn hadn’t pulled away first.

“I’ve said nothing.” Kirwyn spat.

“That’s likely.” Jude said, before narrowing his eyes, “How long have you known?”

“Since the march.” Kirwyn said and watched Jude’s eyebrows draw together, “Since the morning after you put your fucking arm over me, remember? Don’t you think, if I’d said something, you’d have known by now?” Jude scoffed,

“You’re lying.” He said, though he looked uneasy. Kirwyn shifted up onto his elbow to look back at Jude,

“I woke before you did. Your shirt was undone and I saw the markings,” Kirwyn tapped his own chest. “Before that, even, your forearms. Besides, it’s obvious-”

“Obvious?” Jude’s face twisted dangerously but Kirwyn couldn’t stop the words tumbling out of his mouth,

“Your shirt always done right up. And the long-sleeves bedclothes? You leave my sight to change, the furs-” Jude was staring at Kirwyn like he wanted to wrap his fingers around Kirwyn’s throat and he cut Kirwyn off,

“Enough.” He said, “My mother’s right, I should kill you.” Kirwyn swallowed past his dry throat,

“I don’t understand,” he said quietly, drawing Jude’s full attention,

“What?” Jude demanded,

“Why are you hiding it? And from your family?”

“You say that as if shared blood equates to loyalty.”

“Doesn’t it?” Kirwyn challenged. Jude was silent for a long time. Long enough that Kirwyn’s mind began to turn over the conversation Jude had had with his mother, “Why does no-one speak of your father? And what is the flaming?”

“No more questions.” Jude said. Kirwyn glared at the ceiling, “Look at me.” Jude ordered and Kirwyn did, still glaring, “You didn’t hear our conversation and you know nothing about my marks. Are we clear?”

“Yes.” Kirwyn said, sitting up to leave. Jude allowed him to go, though Kirwyn could feel the weight of Jude’s mistrust in the Islander’s silence. Still flushed from Jude’s heat, Kirwyn didn’t look at the guard as he strode back towards the kitchens, reeling from all that he knew and didn’t know.


	11. A Father's Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude goes to see his father.

_Jude_

Jude lay in bed for several minutes after Kirwyn had left. His mother had been right that he should kill the Helveltii, though she didn’t know the whole truth, but he hadn’t wanted to.

Jude dragged himself out of bed and washed himself perfunctorily, standing in front of his mirror, a beautiful object that was worth the rest of his room put together. Jude touched his fingers to his collarbones, the bands on his neck that almost exposed their spread, the extent of his affliction. Jude saw the disgust on his face as he looked at his torso, his skin marred by the sprawling black marks. Jude had never seen anything like it on the few others he’d met who’d had marks; instead of the solid darkness of his hands and forearms, the marks on his chest, stomach, back, thighs were coiling lines, extending out from his shoulders and down the line of his sternum like snakes, interwoven and invasive, burrowing their way under his skin. Jude dragged on a new shirt and the damn furs. _Obvious_ , Kirwyn had said it was. Jude jerked the furs tight around his throat and hoped fervently that Kirwyn was wrong.

In according to his position, Jude’s return meant that where Arete had previously held court – a twice-monthly occasion where the local people could come to voice their concerns and requests or ask for judgement – this was now his responsibility. As Jude sat on the grandiose chair he had always associated with his father, he recalled sitting by his father’s side, watching as he administered justice to the common people and felt proud to be his father’s son. The memory left him bitter, now, but he couldn’t help but draw on what he’d seen his father to do as he answered people’s concerns and acted as justly as he could. Where prudent, Arete intervened to advise Jude, since she was infinitely more knowledgeable as to the diurnal running of Denarex and Jude always deferred to her suggestions, though he appreciated that she was careful not to outwardly seem to be imposing on his authority.

After court was finished, Jude ate, listening as Arete explained their family accounts to him with the help of her stewards. Their land was vast and much of their income came from rent paid by those who lived and worked on their land so it was crucial that he understood it well. Still, the amount of information he needed to get to grips with, all gathered over the years he’d been absent, left him ill-tempered and tired.

“Why not go hunting this afternoon, Jude?” Arete proposed after she had dismissed the stewards, handing him a cup of wine. “No-one expects you to work every hour of the day. I’ve managed Denarex quite adequately whilst you’ve been away. You’re not under any pressure to take up the baton within the week.” Jude swallowed a mouthful of wine and dragged a hand through his hair,

“From what I can see, you’ve done very well overseeing matters here, mother, but this is my responsibility, my birthright. I will not neglect my duties.”

“And you haven’t.” Arete assured him, “You’re doing well; the feast confirmed the neighbouring Lords support, your arrival itself has increased the favour of the villagers and you are learning the nuances of our affairs quickly.” Arete laid her hand on his shoulder, “You can afford to take the afternoon for your leisure.” Jude frowned into his cup,

“Tell me about negotiations with the Outpost.” He said, “The King sent a missive regarding their peace terms?” Arete sighed and waved over a servant with instructions to fetch the document,

“Yes,” she said, “It arrived yesterday, detailing their wish for full surrender and their willingness to withdraw sanctuary for the Helveltii and the Lycurgans particularly but the other tribes as well. It seems the King had much the same idea that I did; that the Outpost showed itself poorly when it took in our enemies.” She turned to Jude, “I understand why you don’t want us to go to war with the Outpost; their location is almost entirely inaccessible, their natural resources a poor prize. I agree with you, Jude. But the King needs a show of power, to demonstrate that we are perfectly capable of crushing them under our horses’ hooves if we so wished, yes?” Jude raised his eyebrows,

“They know we can. That is why they’ve surrendered.” Arete’s lips thinned,

“Yes,” she said, “but they’re also testing us. If they’re granted clemency then we lose a power over them, and weaken our reputation.” Jude was frowning when the servant returned with the missive and he scanned over it. It read much as Arete had said but from the tone was supplicating, emphasising the Outpost’s vulnerable position. They were throwing themselves at the King’s mercy, and he wasn’t known for having an excess of that virtue.

“They’re fearful that they won’t have enough food to survive the winter. They’ll do almost anything to avoid a war that they clearly couldn’t afford.” Jude said, “This isn’t a play for power, it’s desperation.”

“Perhaps that is all it is, but I want you- I would _advise_ you, to ask the King that they follow through with this offer, relinquishing those who have rebelled against us into the Kingdom’s custody. I would advise you to claim at least some of them as part of your war-winnings.” Jude inhaled deeply, considering Arete’s words,

“And what would we do with these people? Enslave them all? The tribes make poor slaves and having so many foreigners in our midst will go down badly with the people.”

“I disagree. I propose we hold a triumph, as of old, where the spoils of your part in the war can be displayed. A feast and celebration, a holiday, and as a show of generosity for their loyalty, you might wish to gift some of the more- promising slaves to the neighbouring Lords, or Denarex’s primary land owners.” Jude frowned, recalling the horror on Kirwyn’s face when his mother had advocated this enslavement. Jude didn’t disagree with the strategic wisdom of her advice, but he would at least admit to himself that it made him uncomfortable. But what was the alternative?  

“I- We will do as you suggest. I trust that you can manage most of the organisation needed for the triumph? I will write to the King.” He considered the options, “I want some of the slaves kept in the palace but I don’t think it wise to keep too many of the same tribe together. They would be more likely to conspire.” Arete agreed, looking pleased. “Very well.” Jude said tiredly, getting to his feet. He paused, avoiding Arete’s gaze when he said, “I intend to see father later.”

“You do?” Arete sounded surprised, “That’s- I’m glad. I shall-”

“I’m going alone,” Jude said quietly but firmly, “And I want the servants kept away.” Arete went to protest but Jude gave her a heavy look and she acquiesced with a sympathetic smile,

“Of course, Jude. It will be just as you say.”

“Thank you.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead and walked away, looking back across the great hall to see Arete calling one of the servants over to her to pass on his message. She met his eye and Jude nodded to her before turning away to walk the lonely corridors alone.

The thought of seeing his father filled him with sick dread. He avoided even thinking of the man, and yet he was going to speak with the man in his private rooms, up in the far top corner of the keep. Jude hadn’t been up there since his return and, had his mother not insisted, he had intended never to.

There were guards stood watch outside the thick doors, the iron slots on the wood allowing the doors to be secured from the outside, and Jude dismissed the guards for the next hour. They didn’t question him, barely hesitated before bowing and moving away, leaving Jude to face his father without strange ears listening in.

Jude took a steadying breath and laid his mark-darkened hands on the wood, pushing one open to let himself in quietly, the well-oiled hinges swinging soundlessly. Jude turned to push the door closed behind him.

“Jude.” Jude’s father, Nistor, greeted him warmly and Jude repressed the unexpected rush of emotion that his father’s half-forgotten voice caused to well up in him. He turned to see Nistor sat on an oak bench, a slave at his feet, holding a book. Jude knew that his face was arranged in a frown but made no effort to remove it. “You-” Nistor stared at Jude’s face as Jude made him way over and Jude panicked for a fleeting moment that his father had seen the marks on his neck. But no, Jude touched the furs at his neck and they were in place. Still, Nistor stared, “You’re a man.” His father’s voice was rough with emotion and Jude steeled himself against it, focusing his attention on the wall behind his father’s head. Nistor dismissed the slave who’d been reading to him without taking his eyes off Jude’s face, “My boy, come here.” Jude did so, stiffly. Seeing his father again brought back memories of both Jude’s childhood adoration for the man before him and he tensed as a wave of loathing passed through him that his father had so betrayed his trust. “He looks so angry.” Jude’s father said quietly to himself, “Take my hand.” Nistor held his out, it was strong and steady for a man of his age but Jude looked on his father with revulsion.

“I have come for your blessing. If you’ll give it.” A look of hurt passed over Nistor’s face when Jude didn’t take his hand but it turned quickly to joy,

“You’re expecting your flaming?” He asked. When Jude only nodded tersely, Nistor looked away, “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” He said, “I didn’t mean- to go away.” Jude restrained himself from giving an angry response and said instead,

“Will you give your blessing?” Nistor looked up at Jude,

“Of course, of course,” he said, getting to his feet with barely a sign of his advancing years. The man’s body still held some of the power and strength he’d had when he was young and his still-broad shoulders, the proud lift of his head, attested to this. He moved over to a chest by the bed and tapped the lock fastening it, “Now where would the key to that be?” He said aloud, looking around the room as if the answer would present itself. Jude stayed silent, though he knew that it was his mother who held the key, not trusting Nistor with its contents. “Never-mind.” Nistor said, though he looked disappointed, “I wished to gift you with my sword but it will have to be done later.” Jude’s reflex was to thank him but he clenched his jaw against the words and said nothing. Nistor returned to stand before Jude, reaching up as to touch Jude’s face. Something in Jude’s expression must have dissuaded him because he pulled back before his fingers could make contact with Jude’s skin. Nistor looked lost for a moment, looking down at his hands, hands that held only the faded remnants of marks which had, in Nistor’s prime, extended, black as ink, up his forearms to the crease of his elbow. Jude remembered looking upon them with awe, so proud to be his father’s son that his chest had hurt with his desire to earn his father’s approval in turn.  

Now, Jude swallowed and, perhaps speaking with more gentleness than he had previously, said again,

“Will you give your blessing?” Nistor looked up to give Jude a wan smile, before putting out his hands. Jude looked at them and did nothing,

“Take my hands.” Nistor urged and Jude did so with reluctance. His father’s skin was coarse, cool compared to Jude’s hot touch, though the pale, greying shadow of his father’s marks allowed him to take Nistor’s hands without burning the old man. Jude’s flesh tingled at the contact as their powers recognised each other. Nistor held Jude’s fingers firmly, as if afraid Jude would let go.

“Son of my blood, I offer you the blessing that my father gave me so that you may defend your home and your people as I have. I give you my power in the faith that you will take the right and just path, accept advice and aid from those wiser than yourself and devote yourself to a cause greater than yourself.” Nistor’s voice softened, “And by virtue of this act, I name you a man.” Nistor’s grip on Jude’s hands tightened and Jude looked down as his marks flared suddenly, alighting his skin with a terrible, searing pain of the like he hadn’t felt since his marks first nipped at his fingers. Jude inhaled sharply and shuddered, attempting to retract his hands from his father’s hold but unable to. His father was unexpectedly possessed with a supernatural strength that was equal to Jude’s and Jude looked, shocked, into his father’s face, watching as Nistor’s eyes glazed over, “He’s strong, stronger than any I’ve known.” Nistor said, trance-like, “My son, you will greater than even the King.” Jude’s lip curled as he snarled, trying again to pull his hands free,

“That is treason-” he started but Nistor spoke over him, his voice quiet and steady, seeming to resonate from somewhere deep within the old man’s chest,

“You are alight with power,” Nistor said, “the power of it, it makes me feel young again. Perhaps, if I took a little… you wouldn’t mind?” The pain suddenly worsened tenfold and Jude cried out, staggering with the force of it. His skin felt as if it was being flayed from his flesh and he struggled to maintain his dignity, biting back the humiliating whimpers of agony that tried to escape him. The old man’s hands held Jude’s rigidly, not even trembling when Jude dissolved into pain, “No, I see that I cannot. This only goes one way, doesn’t it? It wouldn’t be natural to reverse this process. No, you must have _my_ power, what little there is left, and that will ease you in the flaming. Oh, my boy, the ceremony will cause you great pain, even with my blessing. You have so much power that you stand more in Nature’s realm than our own and it will pain you to realise the full extent of your power. You are strong enough for this, I can feel it in you.”

“Release me.” Jude grunted, his skin singing with pain.

“A moment longer,” Nistor said, calmly, “I am rising, now. I can no longer see your power. Oh, but I saw it so bright, Jude. I will never forget it. It is gone from my sight.” Nistor sighed and blinked his glassy eyes and his grip fell abruptly loose, releasing Jude’s hands. Jude took a step away, touching the wall to steady himself. He could sense a tingle of power that wasn’t his own moving through his marks, his nerves feeling as if they were being roused all at once in an overwhelming rush of sensation. It was heady, dizzying, sickening and Jude pressed a hand to his eyes,

“Are you well?” Nistor asked, his voice the same as it was a moment ago and yet entirely different, lacking the steady confidence it once held. Jude took his hand away from his face and nodded brusquely to his father,

“Quite well.” He said curtly. He went to leave. To be with his father was like being trapped in the past.

“My boy-” Nistor’s low tone made Jude pause, “Why does he leave so soon? Why does he refuse to look upon me? Jude, wait. Don’t leave so soon.”

“Who are you talking to?” Jude snapped, “What do you want?”

“Why don’t you call me ‘father’ anymore? Has it been so very long?” Jude turned to glare at Nistor, hardening himself against the lost look on Nistor’s strong features.

“Why don’t I call you father? Must you _ask_?” Nistor looked confused, upset,

“My boy-” Jude stepped forwards, his fist twitching to grab Nistor by the collar and shake the hurt look from his face,

“I’m not your boy.” He growled, “That is what you said.” Jude stepped away, shaking with his emotion, “How dare you, how dare you ask me why I don’t call you father, old man. _You_ disowned me. You called my mother a whore in front of the entire court. You humiliated me and my mother, disgraced yourself beyond redemption. You- the-" Jude choked, struggling to form his words, vocalise the pain his father had caused him, "Do you deny it, you worthless fool?” Nistor looked more lost than ever and Jude spat at the old man’s feet, “I despise you.” He said, feeling his hands flare with heat.

“I asked for you to come,” Nistor murmured, staring at Jude, “I begged them to summon you.” Jude said nothing. “I begged.”

“You’re pathetic.” Jude said coldly. Nistor looked away,

“I don’t know- I didn’t- surely I wouldn’t do that. I don’t remember, Jude, I don’t remember the thing you speak of. I’m sorry, believe me, I speak the truth.” Jude looked at him, and then turned for the door. “You will be the same one day, my son.” Nistor said quietly and Jude froze. He heard Nistor turn away, “This will happen to him and I know that he speaks from his own fear, but it hurts me. That boy used to look at me like I could speak to the stars.” Nistor’s voice caught and Jude put his forehead to the wood of the door. Why did his father have to make it so difficult?

“You humiliated me.” Jude hissed, “You said I was a bastard. Illegitimate. The result of-” Jude’s voice was muffled as he kept his head turned away from his father, "The result of my mother's 'whorish tendencies'."

“I’m sorry.” Nistor’s tone was laden with regret and weariness and such sadness that it made Jude’s shoulders tremble.

“Is it certain, then?” Jude asked, exhausted. He hated this, this rawness that chafed at him, “That the marks will burn me up, as they have you? That I will lose my sanity?”

“Yes. It happens to us all.” Nistor’s sombre tone uplifted into honest wonder, “But what a life it is. My son, one day you will magnificent.” Jude swallowed thickly.

“Goodbye, father.” He choked, his shaking hand pulling the door open as he let himself out, pushing it closed behind him with a clink of the latch. Unsteady, Jude made his way along the corridor.

The flaming was coming, he could feel it humming in his veins.


	12. Loyalty and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jude's missing and Arete's worried.

_Kirwyn_

After leaving Jude’s rooms, Kirwyn was put efficiently to work in the larder, helping to make candles from the thick, foul-smelling animal fat. He did his work silently and with a will and no-one tried to speak to him.

Calem was the only one who approached Kirwyn, when they were in the kitchen, Kirwyn cutting leeks with audible force,

“You’re not supposed to cut the board, only the vegetables.” Calem said from by Kirwyn’s shoulder and Kirwyn flinched, giving Calem a filthy look before he checked himself and schooled his expression to neutral, unclenching his fingers from around the handle of the knife he was using,

“Sorry. Sir.” He said stiffly.

“It’s Kirwyn, isn’t it?” He said, leaning against the table and making Kirwyn’s stomach sink when he realised Calem meant to stay. He didn’t look at Calem. “The Helveltii are a fierce people,” Calem said, “I haven’t met many but I admired them, for their strength.” Kirwyn hand stilled for a moment before he resumed, “Your people are ill-suited to slavery, I know, more so than any captured people. But, still, I don’t wish to have to watch you get yourself killed.” Kirwyn snorted and Calem gave him a frown,

“If he wants me dead, I’m dead.” Kirwyn said bluntly, lopping the ends off the leeks. He could feel Calem’s gaze on him and felt almost glad that the man cared enough to speak to him like this. Kirwyn had done nothing to encourage it, he was certain,

“Just, don’t provoke his anger. Please.” Calem said. Kirwyn glanced over and, instead of agreeing, he asked,

“What’s the flaming?” Calem frowned, taking a seat beside Kirwyn,

“Where did you hear that?” Kirwyn shrugged and didn’t answer. “It’s- a kind of ceremony.” Calem said quietly, “Men with burning marks have a flare of power as they enter full adulthood. It’s a sign that they’re ready to lead.” Kirwyn cocked his head at the other man,

“Jude’s approaching his, isn’t he?” Calem frowned,

“Don’t call him that.” He chastised. “But yes, I would imagine so. Why?”

“Will he take over from his father?” Kirwyn saw Calem close off, his expression disquieted and oddly disturbed, as if recalling something upsetting,

“Don’t ask of the elder milord’s father.” He said grimly, getting to his feet, “That will bring you only grief, I promise you.”

“But why?” Calem just shook his head.

“Put it out of your mind,” He took Kirwyn’s shoulder firmly, “Do not speak to anyone of this, there are unfriendly ears in unlikely places.” Kirwyn nodded his head, accepting Calem’s warning, though it did little to dull his interest. He finished cutting the leeks with his mind on other things though he caught Calem sending him uneasy looks.

Kirwyn went upstairs with the other servers, some of whom he was beginning to recognise by sight if not by name, and got changed with his back to the wall.

As Kirwyn was doing up the buttons on his shirt, Alisc, the boy who’d asked Kirwyn’s name, cornered Kirwyn with a fiery expression on his face,

“You _lied_ to me! You _lied_! I don’t understand. I was being nice.” Alisc said, furious in the manner of a slighted child. Kirwyn tried to restrain a smile and failed, “It’s not funny.” Alisc said sulkily, looking as if he was about to walk away. Kirwyn tempered his smile somewhat,

“You’re right,” he said and put his hands out, palm up, “Alisc, wait. Look here, my name is Kirwyn, son of Darrick Lupiter. Well met, Alisc.” Alisc looked comically taken aback for a moment,

“Are you teasing?” He said, uncertain. Kirwyn softened his expression,

“I’m not teasing.” He offered his hands to Alisc again. Alisc slowly put his hands on Kirwyn’s so that Kirwyn gripped the boy’s small, hot hands lightly before letting go. He inclined his head to Alisc formally before moving to follow the other servers out, feeling strangely unsettled. Performing the Helveltii greeting gave him mixed feelings, bringing back varied memories of the people who had initiated or returned a greeting.

Kirwyn was halted by a hand on his arm and he twitched away reflexively before realising it was Alisc,

“Well met.” Alisc said hesitantly, his earnest eyes sought Kirwyn’s approval and Kirwyn gave it with a nod and a slightly forced smile. Then he turned away and went to collect a wine jug from the kitchen.

The great hall was lowly lit and only Arete, Serin and a handful of travellers and strangers were sat at the table. Kirwyn hesitated when he noted Jude’s absence before he moved to serve a man he didn’t recognise.

Once cups had been filled, Kirwyn took his place by the wall, watching for Jude’s arrival. The Islander didn’t appear.

“-your father-” Kirwyn heard a snatch of Arete’s words, her head inclined towards Serin, from where he was attending the other end of the table. Kirwyn didn’t hear Serin’s response but where the man’s expression was unworried, Arete looked intensely unhappy.

“This meat is cold and tough.” Arete’s complaint rang out across the hall and Kirwyn glanced over, seeing her addressing a server, “It is an insult.” The server was stoic in the face of her anger but clearly deeply apologetic. Arete waved the platter away bitterly and despite being brought other dishes, she ate little. 

Kirwyn watched a young serving woman approach him,

“The younger milord wants you.” She told him quietly, walking away without waiting for a response. It wasn’t required. Kirwyn’s hands on the jug slickened as he came around the table, forced to stop and serve a man who blocked Kirwyn’s way with an outstretched arm and demanded wine.

Kirwyn reached Serin and went to pour the man wine, though Serin’s cup was mostly full, but Serin put his hand over it. Kirwyn withdrew uncertainly, aware of Arete’s gaze on him from where she was seated at Serin’s side. When Serin didn’t speak, Kirwyn said, mindful of Jude’s order to address his family respectfully,

“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” Serin’s lip twitched and Kirwyn didn’t what he’d done or said that had displeased the man. In that way, Kirwyn thought bitterly, Serin was just like his brother.

“Kneel, slave.” Serin ordered quietly and Kirwyn, putting the jug down on the table, did so. His skin was hot and clammy with unease as he waited but Serin ignored him for long enough that Kirwyn’s knees began to ache.

Then Serin reclined in his seat to look down at Kirwyn, “I have some questions for you,” Serin said, his voice pitched low enough that only Kirwyn would hear, “You are a disgusting, insidious little whore, worming your way into my brother’s bed, a place many have tried and failed to get. But you might still be useful to me.” Kirwyn gritted his jaw and said nothing, “Where is he, hm? Where’s he been? Not like Jude to shirk his _duty_.”

“I don’t know, sir.” Serin’s smile was sweet,

“I see.” He said, “You’re dismissed.” Kirwyn hesitated, thrown by the abrupt change in manner, and the smile fell from Serin’s face into an expression of utter wintriness. Kirwyn got his feet under him clumsily and forced himself to incline his head before he backed away, only then realising that he had left his jug on the table. Immediately rejecting the prospect of collecting it, Kirwyn moved to the kitchen to pick up another, pausing by the wall to settle his ragged breathing.

When Kirwyn returned to the hall, a thick, heavy feeling had settled in his stomach and it only deepened when Serin caught Kirwyn’s eye with that same smile that looked so genuine but which had disappeared so quickly from the Islander’s face. Serin’s behaviour, though his voice and face were so different, stuck a chord of fear in Kirwyn that only Ingrid had triggered before. It made Kirwyn sick to think about. He avoided looking at or going near the younger milord for the remainder of dinner. Arete left early, looking cold and tired with worry.

“What did the younger milord ask of you?” One of the other servers asked Kirwyn at the servants’ dinner, a woman who looked to be around Calem’s age, with wide eyes and a wet mouth. Kirwyn glanced at her as he chewed a mouthful of meat. Others at the kitchen table were listening in,

“He wanted to know where Jude was.” Kirwyn said when he swallowed his food, receiving a look of disapproval from Calem.

“Elder milord.” Calem said. Kirwyn shrugged and returned to his food,

“Well? Do you know?” One of the younger women pressed.

“No.” He said. “I am not his keeper.” Conversation fell away after that and Kirwyn became to think on Arete’s words at dinner. What bearing might Jude’s father have on Jude’s absence? It shouldn’t matter to Kirwyn where Jude spent his time but there was little else for Kirwyn to think about and he found his mind churning over the information.

“What’s he like, then?” Another woman asked, her body tilted forwards as she looked expectantly at Kirwyn, “The elder milord? Does he last long?” Kirwyn considered her. She looked familiar and Kirwyn finally placed her; she was one of the women who’d been waiting in Jude’s rooms. It was only as her question fully registered with him and his expression darkened with disgust that he realised his staring and silence were unnerving her, though she hid it under a stiff smile. Kirwyn saw one of the older women, the matronly woman who’d frowned down at him when he’d woken on the floor of what he now realised was the women’s sleeping room, give the younger woman a stern look,

“Clara.” She said, though the look she shot Kirwyn was unsure.

“I’m surprised you don’t know already.” Kirwyn responded tightly. She looked uncomfortable, leaning backwards in her chair to cross her arms over her chest, glancing Kirwyn over with distaste. Kirwyn felt ugly under her glare and his anger flared.

“The elder milord will soon grow bored of you, barbarian.” Kirwyn’s lip twitched grimly,

“I welcome the day.” He said coldly. Clara’s glare deepened,

“You don’t deserve him,” she spat, “you’re just an arrogant piece of filth. I saw your little display in the great hall,” she taunted. “You loved it.” Kirwyn was silent. An older man, his face bearded, tried to quieten Clara but the Clara’s gaze was fixed on Kirwyn, “We don’t care about pathetic outsider life. We’re not going to fucking pity you, going around showing your back off like it actually means something-” Kirwyn stood, the scrape of his chair making some startle in their seats, his hands shaking with the force of restraining himself. Clara fell silent and Kirwyn stood, frozen, for a thick pause before he forced himself to walk away. “Walk away, then,” Clara shouted after him, “That’s what you do, isn’t it?” Kirwyn turned around,

“What do you mean by that?” He growled. Clara smirked, standing up, ignoring those that tried to shush her,

“Everyone knows you ran to save your own skin.” Kirwyn thought that she must have overheard Jude telling his family. He drew an unsteady breath, his heart obnoxiously loud in his chest. His voice, when he spoke, was rough and uneven,

“I owed them no loyalty.” Kirwyn turned away and climbed the stairs up to the sleeping room to slide down the wall, alone.


End file.
